


The Last Temptation (Rewritten)

by StarlightFireworks



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-02
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-04 15:19:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5338913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightFireworks/pseuds/StarlightFireworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heavily rewritten, again:</p>
<p>This story first appeared in The Silmarillion Writer's Guild's Akâllabeth in August.</p>
<p>Summary, from the Akâllabeth in August page:<br/>Sauron has been taken prisoner by Pharazôn but nurtures an ever-growing influence. In the midst of a Númenor increasingly divided, a young Anárion works quietly after rebellion, discovering both love and betrayal in its midst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

_"Yet such was the cunning of his mind and mouth, and the strength of his hidden will, that ere three years had passed he had become closest to the secret counsels of the King; for flattery sweet as honey was ever on his tongue, and knowledge he had of many things yet unrevealed to Men." (Akâllabeth, The Silmarillion)_

_“Destiny is no matter of chance. It is a matter of choice: It is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved.”  
-William Jennings Bryan_

 

His earliest memory was of walking on wet sand, and slipping. He remembered the muddy earth yielding under his bare feet, the prickly shells he stepped on as he went along the shore, the salty smell of the sea, his mother's singing. He had been chasing gulls, Isildur told him, because they had been a royal nuisance all through their picnic and kept wanting to eat his shrimp. Their mother had a different recollection. Her tale was of how Arien had bent over the earth one last time for a glimpse of the little boy who shared her name, while he whispered messages to the gulls to carry upwards to her. The way his father told it, that afternoon had been the beginning of his fascination with knowledge--watching the gulls swoop down into the water for fish, his eyes would follow the flight up and down. For his part, Anárion liked his grandfather's tale the best. Amandil remembered having told him the story of the unquiet of Ülmo that settles on the Elves when they hear the cry of his messengers, the gulls.

"I swear," Amandil would tell him, "you tried everything you knew to do to spook the gulls away so you could hear their squawking." Anárion clearly remembered his grandfather's keen eyes on his, could almost feel the weight of that measuring stare when his grandfather asked him, "I wonder... Why?"

But Anárion could remember no more.

His pragmatic side felt almost horrified that an Elf could be so grief-stricken by such an ordinary thing. The gull's call was hardly melodious, and seagulls themselves were no more than sanitation engineers with wings, at best; at worst, scavengers. Watching them now, as they pecked and ate at the litter around the port, he could have wondered how many Elves had actually seen gulls in action before the yearning overtook them; except that, this time, he was particularly struck by the high-pitched, mournful quality of the sound. The more he listened to it, the more it seemed to him like an echo--maybe a whisper from the past, maybe a warning of things to come--and it troubled him. 

One more thing he found strange was that the gulls here in Rómenna could not be found elsewhere on the island. That small, fascinating fact had tantalized his imagination as a boy. Now, it bothered him enough that on days when things got difficult he could not work at the shipyards for the incessant squawking, and had to leave. Instead of taking control of their own lives, those gulls were content to live on litter day after day, calling their ill omens on half the city's population, who all made their lives out of the port.

Anárion grunted, and raked hands through his hair. He had heard the Foam Princess' horn nigh on three quarters of an hour ago, and still Isildur had been unable to dock for the high traffic. Even his contacts at the port had only been able to do so much to help him and thus the Princess stood, still fifth in line, waiting for clearance. Crowds had always made him uneasy, but there was something macabre about such a sizable audience turning up to receive-- nay, to welcome-- someone whose mere name had conjured visions of terror just a few years earlier. Add to that the King's decision to celebrate the High Feasts away from Armenelos, and you got even the stoutest númenórean firmly on his guard. When he had heard of the King's intent, he had not been entirely surprised. Pharazôn loved nothing better than power, and the last few years had taught him that an important part of keeping power was keeping everyone on their toes. At first, Anárion had seen the move as yet another opportunity to display his might, but as the days went by and he had more time to think on it a darker possibility had occurred. By the time he heard that his family was coming from Andúnië to attend the festival, he could not withstand the tension anymore and had taken his boat out of exile to attempt to relieve the anxiety, and had paid dearly for it. He loved them all more than anything in this world, but he knew that being around them would be a bit of a trial, and he was not ready to deal with Isildur yet. He had lied to them all, but hardest of all was to look his brother in the face and lie to him, knowing that Isildur knew him for a what he was. 

He had not allowed himself to think too much of how things would play out with his brother around, but now that he was faced with the inevitable, he felt as if he were an old rag being wrung out. Why he was such an open book where Isildur was concerned, he could not begin to fathom, but for his brother's own safety he needed to keep his secrets where they belonged. He had made that choice a long time ago and he held to it, hard as it was. Not one of them knew what he did, or why he never came home. Sometimes, he wondered himself about his true reasons, but the course had been set and it was too late to turn back. 

He waited a full hour, and seeing as though only two ships from the line had managed to make it to port, he resolved to walk the length of the dock and back to release some of his fretfulness, lest Isildur mark it and press him for explanations. He had not made it to the next pier when he was hailed by a boy of about twelve or thirteen who tugged at his sleeve with the force of a boy much older.

"A silver eagle t'spare, lord," came the boy's sing-song voice from beside him, and he was not ungrateful for the interruption. "A silver eagle, sir's all I's missin'."

At first, Anárion could not quite follow, but when the boy dangled his tack and pole in front of him, he understood that the boy was looking for money to pay the fishing tax.

"Are you hungry?" Anárion asked, the first thing that came to mind, but soon regretted it when the boy looked away with a swat at his face to try and wipe some of the dirt there. "What were you fishing?" he tried, instead, hoping that would ease the sting of wounded pride.

"What'er we can find. Them big ships is scarin' the fish."

He nodded at that and attempted a small smile, though judging from the boy's nonplussed expression he had not been very successful at dispelling the gloom.

"Aye," he agreed, looking behind and ahead, trying to spot the end of the lines, without success. "It will be hard to find anything here, no matter what you use for bait. Have you tried going to the Lord Arnubên's docks? Or the student shipyards?"

The boy laughed at that, loud enough that he attracted the attention of a few passerby. 

"If I's missin' money for the public tax, what'ya think I h've to pay for private docks?"

Anárion nodded again. "What do you have there?" he asked, a nod to the can the boy held in his other hand, though fully aware it had to be his bait. At that, the boy grinned and pulled out a particularly plump worm.

"We cau't this at t'square, afore the guards got ev'rybody out. See how juicy?" he asked, then proceeding to squeeze his victim just slightly to demonstrate. "I'd 'oped this would fetch me a snapper." He then proceeded to place the specimen on the back of Anárion's hand as he retrieved another 'juicy' fellow. The boy went on at length for some ten minutes, making Anárion handle each of the worms in his collection, who sounded more and more like they were pets instead of subordinates, explaining how the four or five fish with which he was familiar took bait. Anárion could only half-listen to all of this, hoping he was nodding and smiling and interjecting at the appropriate times, for what was really on his mind was whether it would cripple this child too badly if he simply bought him the food. For just one meal of his life, one worry-less meal... would that make him die a little inside? When the last worm had been returned to the can, the dark eyes looked into his again, waiting.

Anárion tried to smile, though this conversation had left him sadder than he had been in a long time, and let himself ruffle the boy's hair-- thirteen was too old for hugs. 

"What is your name?" he asked, kneeling so he could look fully into the boy's face.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours, sir!"

"Fair enough," he said, wondering if the boy was mistrustful or simply trying to act older. "I am Anárion." He extended his hand and waited for the boy to shake it. At first, the response was tentative, but a little grin broke out on the boy's face after a while.

"I am Arannér. Ple'sed to meet ya'!"

"The pleasure is all mine," Anárion said. Emptying his pocket, he took out four gold crowns which he placed inside the boy's outstretched palm, with the warning, "This could buy you food for a week, maybe two, if you bought from stalls and stayed close to the port where there are many clustered together. If you exchanged them for silver sailors, you could use two sailors a day and be well fed. But, if you are smart, you would use them to pay your tax. With four crowns, you could pay fishing tax every day for a month, maybe some three weeks in the private docks. Now, think about it: one week of food, or a whole month's worth of tax money for fishing your own. Use it wisely."

The boy was so stunned that he could not decide whether to talk or to cry, but in the end he squeezed the coins within his palm and with a heartfelt, "Aye, aye! May th'sea be kind to y'a, m'good lord!" began to run away. Before he knew exactly what was happening, Anárion had called him back. 

"I am sometimes in need of an errand boy, if you are ever in need of work," he said. "In the student shipyards. If you look for the most unfinished ship of all, you'll find me."

The boy stood gaping at him for a moment, before he nodded and ran off, quickly getting lost in the crowd. For his part, Anárion stood staring at the now-empty spot the boy had occupied for a long time, wondering where this boy would be in a week, a month, a year. What would become of all of those orphans, widows, and all those grieving people who kept losing their loved-ones to diseases no one had even heard of before? It was at times like these that all his sacrifices seemed petty and utterly inconsequential, and he asked himself whether he was not just another hypocrite. 

The sounds of Foam Princess' horn broke through his thoughts, and when he looked for her, he realized that she was next in line. He was able to distinguish Isildur now, standing regally out from among the rest of his men as he moved about with utter confidence to perform the docking maneuver. It never failed to impress him just how perfect Isildur was, how lucky he had always felt to have such a brother. He was not particularly clear how he would get through the next few days with him at his heel without utterly compromising the secrets he had kept for the past four years, but was he happy to see his brother! From the beginning, he had known that if he wished to keep his family safe, they could never find out exactly what he did, and it was a price he had been willing to pay. That was then. The truth was that he had not really been able to help as many people as needed helping, and he had begun to doubt his methods. He was so tired and discouraged that the happiest moment of his day came with the oblivion of sleep.

"Ahoy!" he heard the familiar voice that never failed to summon a smile to his lips. "Ahoy, brother! Care to pay a visit to the old lady?" 

The familiar wave of homesickness enveloped him in its unpleasant clutches, and he shook his head.

"It's all right, Anárion," Isildur said. "No one need know--"

"It does not make much sense for me to jump on board and disrupt your crew," he said, more forcefully than he had intended, and added, "I'll come back again when we are not so pressed for time."

Gratefully, Isildur said nothing more, but Anárion could tell he had not liked what he had heard. He withdrew from starboard and from him until the docking was accomplished, and stayed behind afterwards for what seemed like an unnecessary long time to complete tasks that could have been given to his first mate. Anárion ran his hands through his hair, splayed his fingers once, twice, then forced himself not to pace until his brother was done and in front of him on the pier.

The stare he gave him then was hard, annoyed, and Anárion bit his tongue to keep from saying what was really on his mind. He loved Isildur with all his heart, despite his brother's propensity to dismiss any thoughts and opinions that did not agree with his. This time, however, as he looked into Isildur's eyes, he saw concern there, and wondered if the irritation he saw there stemmed from frustration instead of disapproval. 

"It's been a long time, brother," Isildur finally said.

"You were here for the races back in April."

"I meant since your... Accident. Surely you are ready to join a crew and sail again."

"They have been very busy at the docks, as you can see," he said, turning around to begin the walk back to the house, but Isildur grabbed him by the shoulder and held him fast.

"Everybody knows you are the smartest, bravest man around," he whispered in his ear. "Let go of any embarrassment and just live your life."

"I am," he said, feeling his lips stretch into a smile that Isildur immediately recognized as false. His brother squeezed tighter.

"Not when you stay away from boats you are not building and act like an imbecile."

Anárion's chin lifted at that, but he bit his lip again. He had contemplated the wisdom of fighting with Isildur to keep him away, but whenever he was actually faced with the task he could not make himself go through with it. Experience had taught him to keep his anger and tongue in check when his emotions were running high, and instead of confronting his brother he looked away. As Isildur would not budge, Anárion finally said, still not looking at him. "I took the old skiff out into the bay the other day."

Isildur squeezed even tighter at that but, in the next moment, he had enveloped him in a hug so warm, so full of the old days, that it hurt.

"It's a start," Isildur whispered in a bit of a strangled voice that made Anárion forget all restraint and clutch back at him for dear life.

"I have missed you, brother," Isildur said, unusually quiet. His embrace seemed more raw and urgent than usual, and it took Anárion by surprise. For a fleeting moment of abandon, Anárion held on tightly, almost desperately. He was sure Isildur must have noticed, and fought hard to regain his control. 

The moments that followed were a little awkward for him, but Isildur ruffled his hair like he always did and said, with the first smile he had shown him since arriving, "I'm touched you made it. You must love me a great deal to have braved this crowd just to see me."

"Nonsense," Anárion said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I thoroughly _love_ wild, smelly, sweaty crowds. Don't you remember?"

"No, I actually remember you as a scholarly recluse, a hermit, a socially-impaired--"

"Enough, I get the gist. I actually came to ensure that you do not get sidetracked on your way to Grandmother's; there's much to claim one's attention around these days and you, gregarious man that you are, are sure to run into someone or other who would command your attention away from home and hearth."

"Is that what she said?" Isildur's dismay was so plainly written on every line of his face that Anárion had to laugh. 

"Nay," Anárion said, then added, "Some things don't have to be said to be known."

Isildur jabbed him on the rib and proceeded to pull him along the dock, toward the throng of people. "Things have certainly improved since the last time I was here," he said with a grimace.

"More excitement, you mean?"

"Tell me about it! The air itself is positively tingling with anticipation," Isildur said, as he rubbed his hands in a conspiratorial gesture. "Where to, first?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, didn't you just say there was so much to see?"

"I said there was a lot to see, not that we would be seeing it. Grandmother would not take it too kindly if I keep you away from all the delights she's cooked up for you."

"Delights!" Isildur cried, rubbing hands in such a comical way that they both had to laugh. "What are we waiting for? Though we may have to stop briefly at Yazdôr's, I've been craving his frog legs for months."

"What about Zîmrazîr?"

There was something about the way Isildur's face tightened that twisted a knot in Anárion's stomach.

"Zîmrazîr is gone."

"Gone?" Anárion asked, halting mid-step right at the foot of the staircase that led to the street above them. "What do you mean _gone_? Zîmrazîr's family has had a food stall at the market in Andúnië for as long as they have lived on the island."

"There can only be one meaning to _gone_ , Anárion," Isildur mumbled, pulling him along once again.

"I hope you don't mean that. How long ago?"

"Some two months, at most?"

"How is it I heard none of it?" Anárion muttered to himself, but his brother heard him and regarded him with a very curious expression.

"This is not the kind of thing one puts down on a letter, brother."

He was, of course, right and though that had not been, precisely, what had been on Anárion's mind, he let that go. Reaching for his brother's forearm so that they would not be separated by the crowd, he steered him to make a sharp turn away from Mariner's Row, to which Isildur offered slight resistance.

"I thought we were going to your house first," Isildur said, eyebrows raised, but nonetheless following.

"My food is all in the garden," Anárion confessed. "With all the work I've had at the docks, I've not had time to gather nor cook--"

"Gather or cook? Whatever happened to Meldiron and his fa-- Surely not them, too?"

Anárion shook his head, "Not here, Isildur. Let's just go back to Grandmother's."

But Isildur held fast, "Are they... By the cliffs of the Forostar, Anárion! I know what they meant to you--"

"Isildur," he said, gripping his brother's wrist, eyes bent on him in an expression that he hoped conveyed hope but warning also. "I am all right. Not here, please." Then he let go and Isildur did not press him further. He said, "Let us go and get those frog legs you wanted."

They walked for a while in silence until they arrived at Yâzdor's booth. Anárion got them each a couple of legs and wine, and stood to the side as he watched Isildur manage to flirt with Yâzdor's granddaughter while taking a mouthful that effectively halved his piece. 

"Are you still thinking of that boy at the docks?"

"You saw that?" Anárion asked, almost choking on his wine. Isildur slapped him on the back a few times, more forcefully than was necessary, but by the time they were done Anárion could not hide his lack of appetite.

"I know you well," Isildur said, taking his frog legs from him. "Is this happening much here in Rómenna?"

"Is it not in Andúnië?"

Isildur shrugged his shoulders, looked around them, took another mouthful. "Atarinya Amandil has implemented many programs to stave off hardship, at least for a while: trade schools, orphanages, food banks, things like that. But the truth is there just aren't all that many people wanting to live in Andúnië anymore, though they won't say it to your face."

"There isn't a richer region in Elenna, not even Armenelos itself."

"Oh, come now, Anárion, you well know why. Our moral compass points a different way. It makes people uncomfortable."

He bit his lower lip and looked away to hide it. He hated to talk about their downfall, though he doubted there were many people on the island as well-versed about what was happening all around them.

"Has it been as much a nightmare for you all," Anárion asked, lowering his voice, "as it has been for us here?"

Another meaningful snort from his brother, and they both fell silent. Some topics were best left to be discussed behind closed doors instead of at a market teeming with royalists.

They walked together some way, which was a feat by all accounts. The streets were crowded to the point that they could not take more than a couple of steps at a time without having to stop. Isildur seemed to think it amusing, but Anárion found it dangerous by all accounts.

"I've figured it out," Isildur said, after a while. "Why Rómenna seems infinitely worse in the charitable department: Every soul in Númenor has got to be here today, and heat and crowds tend to make one ill-humored. Are all these people come to see the King-- or This man... Zigûr?"

"Hush!" Anárion snapped. "You have to watch your mouth, Isildur, this is not what you're used to, and neither your good humor, nor your parentage would do much to endear you to the people here. Civility, politeness, compassion... They've largely deserted the streets. Should anyone so much as think your loyalties are not where they should be, they feel justified in gutting you right then."

Isildur frowned. "And you came to live here by choice?"

"There was no other choice for me."

"Wasn't there, I wonder? Anyway, have you seen him?"

"Seen who?"

"Well, this King from Middle-earth."

"Is that why you are here two days early? To catch a glimpse of him?"

"Isn't everyone?"

"I have no way to give you any answers, I don't move in those circles." Isildur's raised eyebrow told him that his brother had seen right through his lie. "Well, sometimes I do, but not in Armenelos, and Zigûr has never been in this part of the island before."

"Or so you think..."

"He has not."

That curious look was back on Isildur's face, and he realized he had blundered. Hoping to divert his brother's attention, he said, "The King will quite make up for all the time lost in bringing him. I hear this promises to be quite the eventful visit."

"Indeed? How so? Those are exactly the sort of scandalous details I was hoping you would provide me with."

"Why so interested?" Anárion asked, stopping mid-stride. "You are not thinking of joining those who admire him, are you?"

"I know better than to trust a known enemy, Anárion. Or unknown, as the case may be. Which is why I am so curious to see this one. For all his bluster, Pharazôn seems rather... It seems curious that he would let this stranger in in such a way."

"No news there, but I think the danger for us all is the worst it's ever been. There is something dark about that man that fills me with foreboding."

"So you have seen him," said Isildur, as he let himself be steered anew along the market's cobbled streets. "What is he like? Come now, Anárion: details!"

He bit the inside of his cheek, an annoying habit, but he could not help it when feeling frustrated or pressured. "Tall, dark, charming, handsome... Elf-like. It would be too hard to describe him to you without making him sound fantastical, so you will have to wait and see for your--"

But, as he turned around sharply to swerve at the last minute and avoid overturning a glass-maker and his wares, he soundly collided against something that spoke to him.

"Describe who?" was the question he heard.

A familiar grin met him head on, but it was his brother who reacted first.

"Emeldil!" cried Isildur, in time that he clasped the other in a brotherly embrace. "It's been so long, my friend, how fare you and yours?"

"As well as one can, nowadays. Anárion told us you would come earlier. Why the rush? It can only be a matter of women."

"You are sadly wrong, Emeldil," Anárion turned to say, arms still clasped in a brotherly salute with Eranion, Emeldil's younger brother, and the youngest son of their father's late friend, Erador. "I'm afraid Isildur has other _interests_ in mind."

"Don't we all? Look at this throng here, and tell me that there isn't but one thing on their minds."

"Sad, but true," Eranion said, while greeting Isildur in turn. "I see the attraction, but I can't understand it. I'd stay as far away from him as I could. Snakes lure one in closer before they strike."

"Is it as bad as that?" Isildur asked.

"I've no intention of finding out, I've got too many other things to worry about as it is."

" _That,_ " Isildur said, saucy smile in place, "can only be a matter of women."

"How I wish! Although there is some of that in there-- one can never stop fully worrying over Wen for all that she is fully grown, and all."

"Especially now that she is fully grown," said Eranion, frustration and fondness equally apparent on his tone. "She becomes more opinionated by the day, and it's hard to keep her out of trouble now that you have both her wit and dowry to throw into the mix."

"And beauty," said Isildur, who flicked a quick glance his way, as did Eranion. That annoyed him more than he could explain. "I saw her in Andúnië some weeks ago. She has become uncommonly beautiful and interesting, at a time when both women and men are slipping into coarseness and despair. Her particular brand of vivaciousness and gentleness should be quite appealing."

"But we live in perilous times, and one cannot be too careful who one lets into one's life," Eranion said. 

"What do you mean by that?" Isildur asked. 

Eranion looked around them, tried a smile that he did not quite manage, and that gesture alone put Anárion on high alert. "I am merely saying that everything--everyone is not as they seem, and I have much to contend with without having to worry about Elenwë's suitors, or her charitable endeavors, or the societies she wants to run--"

"Why should that cause you worry?" Isildur asked, turning to look at Anárion briefly before going on. "Elenwë has a good head on her shoulders; she is not likely to make a mismatch, or to put herself in any real danger."

"You be the judge," Eranion said, with a minute shrug of his shoulders. "Here we are, a day before the most-anticipated event of our generation, waiting for her in the middle of the most unsafe place in the city, all because she had to pick up her order from the seamstress herself. No servant we suggested could be risked to try the job. Not even my offer to come in her place could sway her. She just had to do it."

"Or so she told you..." Anárion found himself saying, equal parts annoyed and intrigued, but Eranion and Emeldil both glared at him and made him regret the comment. "Well, you know she is more stubborn than all three of you put together--"

"Which is why we are here, as you can well see," said Emeldil, swatting at an imaginary fly. "We were not about to let her go out into the streets on her own, today of all days."

Isildur tsked at them and shook his head. "I think all three of you are missing a very important point. Blinded by your feelings, as you are, you make her sound immature and inconsiderate, but the truth is that Elenwë would not deliberately endanger herself, or any of you, on a mere whim."

"Don't defend her, Isildur," said Emeldil, eyes narrowed. "I can think of many things I would rather be doing right now that would make me a little happier than being trapped here waiting for her."

"I dare say this is better than any of your other choices," Isildur joked, and it was tempting to join in his laughter, but a disturbance to his left caught Anárion's attention. There was loud arguing that he could not understand at first, but after a few moments it became clear that a woman was screaming. She was inside one of the buildings, so the sounds were muffled, but a crowd had gathered outside the store and they had began to argue also. Another voice broke through the ruckus and what Anárion heard made his heart stop.

"What on earth--" Emeldil tried to say, but Anárion hushed him, left their group to get to the building, heart pounding all along as he contemplated the implications of what he had just heard. 

"I beg your pardon," came that voice again, "but we will just be on our way." Light, but he would recognize that voice anywhere, far off as it was coming to him! Torn between dread at what he would find when he crossed the threshold, and what would happen if he failed to do so, he stopped for a quick breath before pushing his way through the crowd. People shoved and pulled him, some clutched at his shirt, some called him names, but he made it through the door in time to see Elenwë struggling to shake off the man who held her by the wrists.

"Let go of the lady," he said, as evenly as he could while Elenwë's eyes were fixed on his, wide and unblinking, and a kind of fear he had never known before threatened to overtake him.The whole company fell silent. He could feel all eyes on him, but his were fixed on Elenwë ahead of him, silently bidding her to be strong.

When nothing happened, he took another step inside and said, more forcefully, "I am not looking for trouble with anyone here, but there will be if you do not let go of her right now."

"Who are you?" One of the men asked.

"What does it matter? All you need to know is that you do not want to fight me, and you do not want to make me fight you." Another step in. "Release her, or I swear to you by the Great City that you will have great cause to regret your poor choice."

There must have been something compelling in his demeanor because the man went ashen white and let go, retreating a few paces, palms raised. Elenwë took a couple of tentative steps in his direction, but another scream rent the air and she quickly turned away. Anárion could not, immediately, find the cause of the disturbance. A cacophony followed where threats were called, more screams followed, and the sound of broken glass began to fill the air. Two men lunged toward him; one of them got a broken jaw, but the other one managed to hold on to Anárion's right arm. He had not wanted to do it but, in a deft motion born of years of practice, he pulled the blade he kept strapped to his belt and with his left hand sliced on the palm side of the man's wrist.

"What's going on?" he heard Eranion call, beside him, but he did not have time to explain. It was hard to find Elenwë in the melee; somehow the thought had entered his mind that that man had been about to take her away, and the idea was doing strange things to his composure. "What's going on?" Eranion called again. 

He had to dodge a vase that had been hurled at him before he could say, "Find your sister and let's get out of here."

Another scream, and his heart stopped again. Where was she? 

"Lassilenwë," he heard her cry, somewhere to his left, "you have to give it up and let go!"

"I came here for an answer, and I am getting one!"

"Lassilenwë, I am begging you to--" but something had silenced Elenwë and he still had not reached her. He reached the other girl, however, this Lassilenwë, and grabbed her from where she clutched at an elderly woman who sat on a cot in the back of the room. She struggled against his hold, screamed, hit his chest with her fists, and he did his best to drag her away while still scanning the room for Elenwë. From a corner of his vision, he saw Emeldil approach.

"Take this girl outside," he said, handing Lassilenwë to him, "and get as far away from here as you can."

"I'm here for Wen!" Emeldil cried, and would not hold on to Lassilenwë, who had not ceased her struggle to break free. 

"Take her!" Anárion cried once more. "Elenwë is not leaving without this girl. I will get your sister, now go!"

He did not stop to see if he had been obeyed, but quickly realized that somebody had shoved Elenwë against a cupboard and was frantically shaking her. An odd fury came over him, and he grabbed hold of the man by his shirt, shoved him against the wall and went forcefully at his neck, his other hand pressing against his eyeballs. As his opponent crumpled to the floor, Anárion took hold of Elenwë's forearm and began walking away, outside. More people flocked in, clusters of fights broke out everywhere around them, and it seemed that they had been forgotten for a moment in the confusion.

"Lassilenwë!" she cried, trying to break free, but he clutched tighter, glared at her.

"Emeldil has her, and you and I are getting out of here, now!"

He had to fight his way to the door and out of the room with Elenwë in tow, but she was fierce when roused and somehow managed not only to keep the pace, but to fight off whoever approached them from her side. She kicked and elbowed, and he thought she had bitten somebody. When they finally emerged into the street, there was a big commotion outside the market. He knew it was only a matter of time before the King's guards arrived, and he planned to be far away when that happened. He looked around, trying to determine which way to go, when he heard the most blessed sound.

"Here!" he heard Isildur call. His brother had climbed onto a roof a couple of doors further up the street, and he tugged at Elenwë to follow him there. 

"Where is she, Anárion?" she asked, stalling, struggling. "I cannot leave without her--they'll kill her if I do!"

"They'l kill us if we go back there," he said. "Emeldil had her, she'll be fine."

"Do you not think she can give Mel the slip and run away?"

"And what if she did?" He barked back at her. "She's a grown woman and deserves the prerogative of having her own choice."

"I will not stand by while they butcher her--"

"Oh, for the light of Eléntari's stars, just move forward," he said, and had to watch her blanch at that. She gripped his arms, clutched hard.

"Never say that again," she said, and was right, but he had been unable to control himself. Her stubbornness and the exasperating nature of her personality were just two of the reasons why he should not try to get close, but there were more reasons. Knowing all that, he could not understand why she roused such powerful instincts in him.

He took a deep breath to try to find good words to reason with her, but by then Isildur stood beside them and urged them to move forward, away. Very few times had he been more grateful for any intervention. Elenwë, of course, let go of him to attempt her plea on Isildur.

"She is stubborn, and... and she is single-minded, and she thinks these people can help her, and she won't leave until she gets what she wants out of them, and they have no compassion--they will kill her for trying to pry, and I can't allow that, Isildur! Please! Please," she said, now clutching at Isilsur's hands, "you have to help me find her."

"Elenwë," Anárion said, leaning so he could talk into her ear, "I will pick you up myself and carry you off if you do not start moving away from here right now."

The fight was beginning to spill out and they would be in the middle of it soon; he had to get her out, and he would do whatever it took to do it. Isildur's eyes widened on him, and Elenwë was so astounded at his manner that was rendered momentarily speechless, but she still did not walk on. Anárion growled and was moving to lift her, when he felt Isildur's restraining hand on his shoulder.

"I will go get the girl. You get Elenwë to safety," he said. Elenwë took a step back to put distance between them, and Anárion growled again.

" _I_ will go back and get the girl! I cannot stand being one more moment next to her," he said, pointing, "she won't listen to anything I say!" and he turned around to return the way he had come. He had not gone far when someone grabbed him by the shirt collar and pulled him backwards.

"Where are you going, you idiot?" 

Anárion had raised his fist to attack, but years of training had made his reflexes sharp and he was able to correct himself before throwing a square hit at Eranion's nose.

"The girl," Anárion said. "I'm going to get the girl."

"Emeldil has the girl, but not for much longer if we don't hurry back. She is doing all she can to get back to that fracas."

"Not if I can stop her," Anárion said. "Get your sister to move faster and we'll be out of here in no time."

"How?" Eranion asked, more to himself than to Anárion. "This place is a veritable maze and not one of us has ever gone deeper into it than this."

By then they had reached Isildur and Elenwë again, and could now see Emeldil and Lassilenwë a couple of buildings ahead. Anárion could tell the moment Elenwë saw them too because she sped in their direction. Why was she so intent in helping that girl? It bothered him that he had no answer, though he could not say why. It bothered him even more than the girls' lack of cooperation and general ungratefulness. Once Elenwë had reached her, she immediately set out to help her reach a level of calm, to no avail. Emeldil still held her fast, but she was thrashing about, kicking and flailing her arms, and when Elenwë tried to talk to her, Lassilenwë spit at her.

"That is uncalled for!" Emeldil cried, holding faster than he had before, which only agitated her further.

"Enough, Emeldil," Elenwë said. Her brother let go at once, startled, Anárion suspected, by Elenwë's use of his full name. Lassilenwë seemed startled herself, and it was that moment of confusion that Elenwë used to lay one hand on her forearm, her other arm circling around her shoulders. "We have to get away. You saw how violent they became. You will gain nothing by staying behind, but could lose much. If you really are doing this for your sister, you need to stay strong to fight for her."

Lassilenwë spit at her again, but Anárion could tell that her jerkiness and breathing were slowing down somewhat. Without thinking, he reached and wiped the spittle from Elenwë's face. That brought everyone's eyes to rest on him, and he rubbed at the back of his neck before saying, "We cannot go back the way we came. The only way out for us is forward."

"But--" Eranion struggled to find the words. "But--well, you know what goes on ahead."

That he did, but how to explain that to them? The market, like many other public places in Rómenna, had outgrown its original grid-like design. Instead, it had expanded in disorderly patches of buildings and stalls until the original plans were practically outdated and the whole thing was more of a maze than anything else. Outsiders only knew that sinister deeds were everyday occurrences the deeper one went into the maze, and though he did not doubt that shady dealings went on behind many closed doors, his experience was that most market denizens were happy to circulate the rumors just so they would be left in peace. The deeper in one went, the owners also used their stores as living quarters, and he had found that matters got complicated when so many people were together in such close proximity every hour of the day. Relaying all this meant exposing inside knowledge he was not supposed to have, so he struggled with his choice for the space of two or so heartbeats until he realized the odd way Elenwë was looking at him. He was entirely unprepared for the tenderness that welled inside of him at that look, and he had to look away, flex his fingers. 

"Let us go before we are missed," he said, and with a quick look and nod at Eranion, he began to walk forward. 

Behind him, he heard Elenwë say, "It is in your best interest to follow him out of here, Lassilenwë. Don't be a fool and rally up to fight again." One of her brothers must have jabbed her because she gave a little shriek, then said, "Of course I did not mean it literally. These fellows cannot be defeated by physical force without doing any harm to ourselves. We'll have to figure out some other way."

"And what do you mean by 'defeat' and 'figure out some other way'?" Anárion turned to ask, but realized the need to soften his tone when he saw that they were all following him. He let them be for a while as he picked his way through the streets he knew as well as the streets of his childhood home, trying to shield them from the worst of it and to keep them away from what they should not be seeing. After a while, he could not hold it in any longer, and asked, "You are not planning on going back there, are you?"

"What I do is none of your business, Anárion son of Elendil," Lassilenwë said. 

He thought he could have died on the spot from the venom dripping from her voice, but did not pursue the thought when he heard Emeldil and Elenwë voice a complaint.

"Watch your tone," Emeldil said, "we just saved your life."

"Making some allies would not hurt," said Elenwë; then, after a brief pause, hesitant, "You know Anárion?"

He hated himself when his heart skipped a beat at the sound of his name on her lips. She had not called him by name in eight years.

Lassilenwë gave a snort of laughter. "Everyone on the island knows the sons of Elendil. What I did not know was that they kept such juicy secrets."

He started at that, turned around and asked, "What do you mean?"

Her slow smile put him in mind of one of those hyenas he had seen in the Middle-earth. "I would not have pictured Elendil's proper, worthy, respectable sons being such deft street fighters, nor being able to orient themselves so well and so deep into the market, too, of all places in Rómenna!"

"Well, did you think we earned our fame just by standing, idly, at home?" Joked Isildur, but Anárion could hear the sting in his voice. If he did not think of anything to divert her, quickly, they would all be in trouble, but a fortunate thought came to him then.

"Have you been able to keep oriented as we've been traveling, lady Lassilenwë, daughter of Galador?"

She gasped at that, and he thought he did a creditable job of suppressing his smile.

"You know who I am?" She asked, the first display of something other than anger and contempt he had seen from her. How to pursue that? He gave her a sidelong look and went with his gut.

"Your father is well-known among the navy," he said. "His actions at the mouths of the Kulub-haza saved many lives." A pause, for effect, which he had to ruin with, "Though, I prefer your grandfather's innovations in strake design. He has truly blazed a trail in ship-building."

"You are a pacifist, then," Lassilenwë said, the contempt back in her voice. He filed that for later contemplation, and shrugged his shoulder.

"I simply love ships."

"Anárion is a student in the shipwrights guild," Eranion supplied. Anárion was touched by the pride in his friend's voice, but even after four years the mention of his status as a shipwright's apprentice still managed to produce a pang of longing. He suppressed it, like he always did.

"What would your father say if he knew you to be here?" he asked.

The snort she let out was both telling and heartbreaking. "What he does not know won't hurt him," she said, in a low, smooth purr that made his neck feel hot.

"How do you figure he won't find out?" asked Isildur. "Men like your father have eyes everywhere. With any luck, he is on his way here right now."

Anárion turned in time to see a small shudder that Lassilenwë mastered quickly before saying, "Men like my father have more important things to do than chase after wayward offspring. And besides," she said, the purr back in her tone, "I doubt he'd be as skilled as you in navigating these... streets."

"Enough," Elenwë said, and he had to turn back to look at her. That small furrow that settled right between her eyebrows and wrinkled her nose was in place, but she would not look back at him. His heart did that odd thing again, and he turned from her to stare ahead at the road. They had been going steadily inwards for some fifteen minutes, and he had began to see signs of the change in the market--there was less noise, more darkness, more buildings, all clustered together upon each other giving the impression of towers, or maybe jagged teeth. The first time he had ventured here he remembered being surprised at the many colors he could see, all the different smells he had never smelled before--so many signs of foreign travel in this unexpected place. He hoped nobody would recognize him by daylight and without his disguise, hoped he did not suddenly start limping.

"Where are we?" asked Emeldil, unexpectedly, moving closer to shield his sister from the crowds at the entrance to a drinking parlor. "Do you even know where we are, Anárion?"

He did not answer. What could he say? But it seemed to have been the wrong thing to do, for it put them all on edge and Emeldil, especially, became quite agitated.

"Anárion, do you know where we are?" he asked again. "We had best begin turning around, rather than go forward with two women in tow. What is this place, anyway?"

How could he explain? Or tell Emeldil that they were far from seeing the worst yet? He flicked a quick glance beside him and, to his surprise, found Elenwë regarding him with curiosity; upon feeling his eyes on her, she shook herself like she had not known what she was doing, and had only belatedly realized she was staring.

"Don't get all twitchy, Mel," she said as she looked away. "He knows what he's doing."

"How can he possibly? Look at this place, it's awful!"

"Supplies," Anárion managed to mouth, still taken aback by Elenwë's unexpected defense. "Supplies. I get some supplies from some people here."

"What kind of supplies?" asked Isildur, a mixture of anger and surprise.

"Inks, papers, twine... Things like that," he said, which was not untrue, only out of context. "For my maps, my research."

"How, in the Circles, did you ever manage to find these people, Anar?" asked Eranion.

Again, silence.

"Let him focus." Elenwë. "Since you are so keen on getting out of here, you should be quiet and let him work on it." 

"Like you are one to talk!" Emeldil cried. "You have not stopped staring at him, and we all know what your eyes do to unfortunate fellows who don't know how to guard themselves..."

Elenwë stepped on his toe and he let out a strangled scream. "Lucky for us, he is not an unfortunate fellow and can guard himself quite well. If you really want to put this place behind you, a little more tact is called for, please! Surely you can appreciate the need to avoid any... misunderstandings."

"By all means," Emeldil said. "Let us begin by clearing up the biggest misunderstanding of all: Why are we even here, Elenwë? Or is that another one of your _misunderstandings_?"

"Quiet, please!" Anárion finally snapped, rather than pleaded. "It will all be well," he said, but it was far from the truth. They had drawn enough attention already amongst the market denizens because of their speed and number. He could deal with that. A well-placed word here, a coin there, and these people would leave them to their business, but he could also tell that they were beginning to attract attention of a different, more sinister variety, because of their fine clothes and their women, and he became keen to get them all out as soon as possible. "Can you walk faster, just a while longer?" he asked in a whisper, to which both women nodded an affirmative reply. His eyes lingered on Elenwë before he continued, "As discreetly as you can, pull your jewels and pass them to me; drop them if you cannot. Clutch your purses tightly and follow my lead as we edge out sideways."

Relieved that no one thought to argue with the course he proposed, he began to make his way westward, hoping to exit that way rather than go through to the end of the market. If he had kept an accurate count of their steps and landmarks so far, right about now they should be getting level with Meadowlark Lane outside the market. From there, they could get on the main thoroughfare to Erassor's family home. There were two alleyways that ran parallel after passing The Three Mussels, and he was going to split their group into two and have them join him in the far back, when he noticed a man watching him that he was sure he had seen some three blocks behind. That gave him pause. Looking around him, he realized there were three more men watching their group on either side of the street, forming an interesting configuration from whence they could fall on them at will. He kept his pace, and noticed that the men moved in turn. He cursed under his breath, began to move to his left to talk to his brother. "We are just about to be surprised," he said, "by four fellows who are watching us alongside the road. Get Elenwë, and Lassilenwë if you can, and run away. Go westward as much as you can, that should get you out of the market. Count 14 torches on your way out and, by then, it will be safe to ask for help. Don't try to get back in here, I'll find my way out."

"Are you crazy?" His brother asked lagging behind, but Anárion clutched at his forearm to urge him to keep the pace. "I am not just going to leave you here."

"You have to keep the women from being taken. I have heard... What I have heard they do to women is nothing I would wish on anyone I know."

"Elenwë's brothers are here, let them take care of her. My duty is with you."

"I am begging you, Isildur," he said, and with one last look, he moved as quietly as he could to reach Elenwë. 

He found her hand and took it, still walking forward, and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Run after Isildur and don't stop until you reach the exit. Fourteen torches westward and you'll be at Meadowlark. The road twists. Just follow the light. Fourteen torches westward."

"What are you saying?" 

He gave her hand a parting squeeze and whispered, "Fourteen. Be fast!"


	2. Chapter Two

_The art of losing isn't hard to master;  
so many things seem filled with the intent  
To be lost that their loss is no disaster.  
-Elizabeth Bishop_

 

By then the men had realized what he was doing and had lined up by twos to either fall upon them or cut them off the exit, he was not sure. _'Queen Elentári,'_ he whispered, _'Lord Námo, I need to get these people to safety.'_ He was not sure if these men had followed them from the brawl behind or if they wanted him for some other reason, so he could not be sure how to appease them, and any mistake could prove fatal. _'Lord of Light, at least save my friends... Don't let my mistakes hurt these people..._ Anárion stopped, pivoted, and began to run backwards the way they had come. "Now!" He shouted, and hoped everyone would fall into step.

As if he had unleashed a passel of caged roosters, everyone around them started to move. He felt arms snatching him in time he heard Lassilenwë scream and Elenwë call his name. He prayed Isildur would help her as he turned to engage whoever had grabbed him. As if he were outside himself, he saw his assailant preparing to hit his jaw, but he dodged this and received a hit on the shoulder instead. He launched against the man's ribs, then his groin, which made him crouched onto the floor, giving Anárion the chance to hit him in the head with his knees, again and again. Another man fell upon him and they engaged also, while all around them the market seemed to have awoken. From the corner of his eye he saw more men flocking in, and he realized that they would be surrounded in no time if they did not manage to run away. Arms grabbed him from behind, began to choke his neck, and just as suddenly were released following a loud yawp. When he turned, he saw Elenwë beside him, knife in hand, a spatter of blood on her yellow dress.

"Get out of here!" he screamed at her with all the fire and power he was able to muster.

"I'd be dead before I leave you here to yourself!"

He heard someone cry, "You may yet be!" before they threw themselves at her. She jumped away at the same time that Anárion jumped on to the man, but they both missed, though her attacker managed to get a hold of her skirt. In a mere moment his arms were wrapped around her waist. Anárion's limbs suddenly felt hot, a powerful rush of strength pulsing through him in time with his heartbeat. He heard himself growl, though he could not recognize his voice, and surged against the man. His fist throbbed as he hit the man's temple, causing him to fall onto the floor, releasing Elenwë. A part of him knew that he should have taken her and ran away but, by the light, he could not make himself stop hitting the wretch. The man got up and tried to grab a hold of him, but Anárion was faster and hit his face with a high kick again, and again, and again. By the time he felt arms pulling him away, his damaged tendon was throbbing and he knew it would not be long before his knee was on fire. 

"The alleyway is blocked," Isildur cried, "there's more of them coming!"

Anárion stopped, clutched his head, worked hard to think. How far had they moved from Meadowlark since the fight began? A little longer and they would be-- dare he do it? He looked around them; there was a temporary reprieve, but he heard calls to their right and knew the men were almost upon them. He could only think of doing one thing--reveal the one thing that he had striven to conceal. Beside him, Elenwë was wiping soiled hands on the yellow silk of her dress. When she realized he was staring, she gave him a weak smile and said, "I could not get a good grip on the knife."

It was all the encouragement he needed.

"Straight ahead," he told Isildur, "and when you get to the stairs go down and left. I'll meet you at the bottom!" 

He reached for Elenwë's hand; it felt cold and slippery. "Don't put that bladder away," he said, "and if someone comes at you, aim straight at their eyes or hands."

"I'll go at their neck if I have to," she whispered, with a shudder that he felt through their linked hands, all the way to his chest.

"You aimed at their hands before and that was plenty good," he said. The thought of sweet Elenwë killing a man threatened to undo him, and he clutched harder and ran faster than he had ever ran before. She kept calling for Lassilenwë but he pulled her closer to himself to keep her from running away. From a corner of his eye, he saw Lassilenwë following Emeldil out of sight, down the way he had shown them. A relieved sigh escaped him, and he ran until he reached his destination: a cluster of buildings that towered upon each other at the end of Road 54. 

"We have to climb," he said, "are you ready? You've done this before."

She squeezed his hand once and nodded her understanding. Did she remember? When their eyes met, hers were wide and stormy, the grays grayer and the blues bluer than even he could ever remember seeing. And then, something incredible happened: he felt himself smile at her--a smile that he hoped was encouragement, reassurance. She was so startled that she tripped, and he had to reach for her to steady her.

"Ready?" He asked and, when she nodded, he knelt and linked hands to give her a leg up atop one of the store's awnings. 

"Where to?" she asked as she clambered up.

"Up all the way, then down!"

And up they went, up four levels of awnings and windows, if he had to be precise. He climbed up the first awning and cut its ropes off so they could not be followed, then went after Elenwë until he saw her begin to slow down. "All the way, then down!" he cried again.

"Down?" She asked, in time that he collided with her back at the top and almost pushed her forward. His arms wrapped around her at once to keep her from falling-- a reflex act, he told himself, grateful and terrified at the same time. "There's nothing down there!"

"You'll have to trust me," he said, tightening his hold on her waist and jumping with her into the darkness.

 

***

"There they are!" Anárion heard Emeldil cry, but he needed a moment to recover before he could attempt any reply or explanation. It had been the gamble of his life, but thank the Valar, it had paid off. The rush of energy that he had felt atop that roof and that had led him to jump to the bottom with Elenwë was beginning to ebb. His knee felt like it had been torn into quarters. His rib cage pounded. But, she was safe.

"We are not out of it yet," he whispered as he tried to help her up from the bed of feathers where they had landed. Her eyes still looked unfocused and she pressed her hands to her temples.

"How did you know this would be here?" she asked in a very low, slow voice that he doubted anybody else had heard.

"Are you hurt? Can you stand?" he asked in turn while plucking feathers off her hair, her face, her sleeves, but she held on to his hands to still him.

"What is happening? What is this place?" she asked, more forcefully this time. The sweet expression of her eyes hardened as she focused on his face, but he was good at fixing his attention where he wanted it and he pushed the regret out of the way, intent on helping her stand. He was not so good at following his own commands, he thought, because he could not make his hands leave her shoulders and he lingered a little longer than was needed to help her steady herself. Then he turned to talk to the men.

"I don't know if we can travel in such a big group much longer without being recognized," he said, trying to convey his urgency. There was only one place they could go where they could hope to escape their enemies, and he was breaking his oath to never to take anyone there. He looked around their little circle: Emeldil and Isildur wore identical frowns; Eranion looked up to him, expectant and uncertain at the same time; Lassilenwë looked ready to collapse on the spot, and Elenwë... The sight of Elenwë's blood-splattered bodice filled him with a fierce emotion that he was not used to feeling, and he hated himself for so easily giving in. He had seen, time and again, that emotions were the enemy of success, and yet he let himself get derailed from his goals at the first opportunity. "Follow me as silently as you are able. We may make it if we stay in the shadows."

"Make it--to where?" asked Emeldil.

"I'm scared to ask," Isildur muttered under his breath, but made to follow him. He had taken this path so many times that the darkness did not affect him, but he knew the others would likely trip over the cobblestones, so he tried to whisper more instructions than he normally would have. Once they had gathered around the spot he sought, the wall with vines and moss all over it, he rolled over a mat of vines and brambles to reveal a door. Pulling the key from under his shirt, he instructed, "You will go to the end of the first hallway and then zig-zag your way to the last room you come to. Wait for me there."

He sent his brother in first and, when the last of them had gone through, he covered the door once again and continued along the cobbled path until he reached the second entrance he had hoped to keep hidden. Slipping through the crack on the wall, the way he normally took on Wednesdays, he began to give some thought to how he would explain what they had just been through and, more importantly, how he would ensure his party's silence. They would need water too, maybe food, but could he return with supplies without making them suspicious? At least for the women's sake, he had to try. That meant a slight detour, but he saw no way out of it.

When he finally reunited with his friends, they accosted him right away.

"Where were you?"

"What is this place?"

"Took you long enough!" 

Curiously enough, Isildur and Elenwë remained silent, staring at him like they were seeing him for the first time. His pulse quickened under their scrutiny, but he forced himself to go through the motions with a degree of normalcy.

"There is water here," he said, handing each of the women a skin. Lassilenwë drank, greedily, but Elenwë held the skin at arm's length, still regarding him with that odd mixture of anger and fear that had always unnerved him. He would have called it awe before, but he could not do so now, and had to suppress the pang that made him feel.

"Well, if you don't want it," Emeldil told her, grabbing the skin from her, "I'll be happy to take it off your hands." 

Anárion watched them exchange water skins, while he in turn was watched. Elenwë did not take her eyes off him. Isildur, eventually, growled and snatched the water skin off Eranion, then tossed it at Elenwë after one long gulp.

"Might as well quench your thirst," he said. "We won't be getting a word out of him."

After Anárion watched her tentatively take the skin, take one slow, hesitant draft, he nodded and headed toward a dark, quiet corner where he could collapse himself. He was pleased that they all followed suit, in silence. Maybe they were too scared to ask the questions; maybe they were too tired. But, whatever the reason, he was utterly grateful for the reprieve.

For a while he was allowed to sit in silence. He unlaced his boot and pulled his pants up to reveal his swollen knee. He needed a cold compress, and some of his ginger tea, but since he had neither, he had to content himself simply by rubbing the pain away. After a few moments, Elenwë came to sit beside him. With a glare and a frown, she pushed his hands away and began to massage around his knee herself. 

"What--what do you think you are doing?"

"Helping you," she said, in a dry tone and without looking at him. "I am quite good at this, you said once, remember?"

How could he ever forget? Torn between the respite her ministrations produced and his resolution to keep her at arm's length, which he had already broken several times today, he said, "Your aunt would throw a fit if she could see you."

Elenwë laughed at that, a mirthless, heartbreaking, defeated laugh. "Let her. There's always somewhere to find fault." But then she whimpered. Anárion caught her hand to examine it and it was then he saw the deep gash that crossed her right palm. 

"How did you get this?" he asked.

"Someone wanted my knife and I had to fight them for it, Anárion." She said his name in a strange sort of caress that he hoped no one else could feel. 

"There would have been no need for you to fight if you had stayed away from this place. And this bruise here at your other wrist...?"

He saw her draw herself up straight at that, almost physically put up a wall between them that he did not even know had been torn down. And then he understood.

 _'This was my doing.'_ All those times he took her hand, when he clutched at her so she would keep up, he was being more forceful than he had thought and had hurt her. He tried to get up, but his knee gave way and he fell down again. A curse escaped him, which they all heard, further adding to his humiliation.

"Calm down, Anárion," Eranion said, moving to kneel beside them. "We all know we owe our lives to your quick thinking."

"And his good knowledge of the market," Lassilenwë said from her corner at the far left of the room.

"I think we all deserve an explanation." Emeldil.

They all looked at Isildur, waiting for him to weigh in, but he simply looked on for a while, still frowning, arms crossed as he leaned onto the far wall. Elenwë tried to resume her rubbing of his knee, which took him aback. For years she would not say more than three words to him in a sentence, and suddenly she could overcome her reticence to care for his knee, no less? He shook his head, grabbed Elenwë's hands as gingerly as he was able and placed them on her lap, while he continued with the task himself.

"You always do this!" Elenwë cried, frustration and anger dripping from her voice. Only once before had he heard such a tone from her, and the recollection brought back all the anger, the hurt, the humiliation he had felt then. It was painful, but it was enough to make him remember his promise. He swallowed once, twice. He would not let her win one more fight, and for that he needed to remain calm.

"I always do this?" He threw her question back at her. "And you always find a way to burst into a rage at the worst possible moment."

"It is just like you to call them outbursts," she said, retreating behind a veneer of sarcasm, "forgetting that it was you who provoked them."

"I never provoke you," he said. "All I have done is try to help you when you insisted on acting like the spoiled child you are."

Her lips flattened into a thin smile. "You call me spoiled? That must be because you have already forgotten your rude requests, your barked commands, your flare-ups of temper--" She was trying to be delicate and not mention the bruise, but her silence spoke as loudly as her words.

"Ah!" He said, raising his palm so as to indicate he did not wish to hear more. "How could I forget that to Elenwë, daughter of Erador, the way one performs the deed is just as important--if not more so--than the deed itself? Next time I will remember to ask permission before I snatch you off the hands of whoever wishes to hurt you."

"I doubt there will be a next time."

"We can both agree on that, because I will make sure your brother does not let you get into this kind of trouble again." He paused, rubbed at the back of his neck. "Have you any idea how close you came to--" Here he stopped. He could not bring himself to tell her the horrors he had heard were inflicted on women taken from their families in the age they lived in, could not tell her what he had seen and shatter her innocence forever, no matter how angry with her he was. He did it to spare her, but it was the wrong thing to do. He knew it in her narrowed eyes, in her upraised chin, in the way her voice hitched then went up one step in pitch.

"And what are all of you going to do--tie me up to keep me at home?" She asked in a show of defiance that would almost have been laughable if it had not followed the little adventure they had had that day. She got up and paced to join Isildur at his wall, "It won't work! I have stayed apart before, and I swear by all that is most precious that I will never stay back again, no matter what any of you do to keep me away!"

"Because you would rather put your family in danger. It's much more fun, isn't it?" he asked.

"Because somebody has to do it!"

"Calm down, Wen," Eranion said, walking to stand beside her, trying to appease her, but she shrugged off his hands and scooted off farther away, like a frightened doe would when accosted. That gave Anárion pause--it looked like a dance that they had engaged in before, and he wondered when it had started, and why.

Emeldil let out a groan. "Let her be, Rani. Her money will run out at one point and then she'll have to stop."

Stop what? He felt like asking, but didn't. When he realized that Isildur's eyes were fixed, keen, sharp, unwaveringly on him, he understood that there was more to the tale than had surfaced yet, and his brother knew what it was.

"What I do with my money has nothing to do with either of you," Elenwë said, chin up, but Anárion could see her hands clasped together in front of her, gripping so tightly her whole body was straight as a rod. He knew what this was costing her, and had to wonder what had happened to her that would make her defy the brothers she loved so much, and who so loved her in return.

When Isildur spoke, they were all unprepared for it.

"Money has nothing to do with it," his brother said, "and it matters little to any of us here, except that when you put your brothers in danger you may have gone too far."

That startled her, and she scooted away from him too, further backing herself into the corner of their small room.

"Well," Eranion said, "in all fairness, she could not have foreseen that a fight would break out. She was just trying to help Lassilenwë. I know why she did that."

"What about the fight after that one?" Isildur asked, one brow raised, arms crossed over his chest.

"What do you mean?" asked Emeldil. "Those men had been following us from before... Hadn't they?"

"How can you know that?" asked Isildur, but his eyes had not left Anárion's for a moment. What was his brother trying to tell him?

The silence that followed his brother's charged question was worse than the quarreling had been. Lassilenwë sat on the ground, forgotten, though Anárion sometimes thought he saw a smile lingering across her lips. Elenwë had sat also, knees drawn up to her chest with her head resting on them, while her skirts spread about her like a marigold spreads her petals around. Eranion had began to chew on his fingernails, a telltale sign of extreme anxiety for him that he had not displayed in years. Emeldil would not stop pacing this way and that, putting them all on edge. And Isildur... Isildur would not stop looking at him. At first, Anárion had tried to give him stare for stare--only liars or cowards look away--but he could not bear the weight of his brother's scrutiny. Under the pretext of tending to his injured knee, he had left his brother to stare away on his own. His hands felt cold, as hot as he had felt before, and that unpleasant feeling that signaled anxiety for him had settled at the pit of his stomach. He needed his tea, he needed to work off his tension, he needed to get all these people away from here and how was he going to do that? What if Isildur had been right? He did not know which was worse--that those men had been after him and he had put Elenwë in danger, or that they had been after Elenwë to begin with...

They stayed like that for longer than Anárion had believed they could stay quiet, save Emeldil, but when he had had enough he finally kicked at the wall and rounded in on them all.

"What is this place?" he asked, punctuating his words with wild gestures--as wide as he could go, cramped as they were. "Why are we here? I thought we were going to the seamstress! The seamstress, for Valar's sake! We almost get ourselves killed, and probably killed other people out there, and for what? I want somebody to tell me exactly why I was risking my life out there, by the Valar!"

"Please, be quiet!" Elenwë rose, crossed the room in three strides to stand in front of her brother. "If any one of you swears by the Valar one more time, I-- I--"

"You what?" asked Emeldil. "You will tell on me? I don't care any more, Elenwë!" 

"Well, I do!" she said. When she dabbed with the back of her palm at her nose, Anárion realized that she was trying hard not to cry. Her brothers must have understood too, for they both made to go to her at once, but she shook her head and walked away. "Just... please... stop swearing. One day you may swear in front of a royalist by mistake and would be beyond any help. I-- I could not bear--"

Of course she could not, and they had all been stupid to think she had to be strong for everyone. For the first time, Anárion saw the fragility that lurked beneath their facade of normalcy, and felt a little stab at his heart.

"What do we do now, Anárion?" Eranion asked, perhaps trying to diffuse the tension. His friend could not have known that in asking his question he had opened a window that he would have rather wished closed.

Anárion sighed. "This place is well-hidden. We should be safe here until we are ready to leave."

"And when is that?" Lassilenwë asked, the first thing she had said since they had gotten there in the first place. "We camp out here for days until we deplete your secret stash of food? We wait out the night, hoping we can go home with our reputations intact after having spent the night with four men in this cozy, little room?"

Emeldil turned and shook his fist at her, but addressed his sister, "I thought you had better taste in friends, Wen."

Lassilenwë laughed at that. "And here I was bewailing her poor taste in family."

"Oh, please!" Elenwë said. "I hope we can remain civil until we each go our separate ways."

"Does it mean you are going to leave me alone, daughter of Erador?" Lassilenwë asked. "Can we stop this little project of yours?"

"This is not a project, Lassilenwë, and no. I will not stand aside while I watch you put yourself in all sorts of danger without at least trying to watch your back."

"I do not need you to watch my back to assuage your guilt."

It looked as if a physical force had pushed Elenwë backwards, and she said nothing more after that. Neither did Lassilenwë. They still faced the dilemma of getting out of their hideout and back into their world.

"We have two choices, as I see it," he finally said. "We can wait until the morning, but we will surely be seen if anybody is out there watching for us. We can leave tonight, and risk the danger of the dark streets, but trusting in darkness' cover."

"What would you rather do?" asked Eranion.

Anárion thought about it for a moment. He knew he would choose the cover of night, but could it be attempted while they had the women with them?

"Is any of you physically unable to keep a fast pace right now?" he asked.

"You are probably the worse off, at the moment," said Isildur in a clipped voice, still frowning.

"I'll be all right. If you can follow my instructions, precisely, I think we ought to try leaving after twilight. We are outsiders, and the most logical conclusion would be for them to think we would be too scared to leave in the middle of the night."

"Do you really think all five of those men are out there waiting for us?" Asked Emeldil.

"There were seven," Anárion said, "more, if you count the shop tenders that threw the vases and the baskets, though three of them, at least, suffered incapacitating injuries. We cannot be too sure. I'd rather not risk waiting until tomorrow, but we have to be fast and quiet."

"What is this place, Anárion?" asked Isildur.

"A warehouse."

"For what?"

"Papers, inks, that sort of thing, like I told you," he replied, which was true.

"Who owns this place?"

"Someone I know."

"And he is--"

"Someone you don't know," he replied with finality. Which was true enough, in a fashion. "Now let me try to draw out the route for you, in case we get separated."

Their return to the civilized world was so uneventful that it put Anárion on high alert, and he could not bring himself to settle down his nerves, even after they had arrived at Lassilenwë's home. It was late and they all had declined to go inside, though Lassilenwë's pretty cousin, whose movements they all followed as she took the girls inside, had begged them to do so again and again.

They stood looking after them in silence for a long while. It was, of course, Emeldil who broke the quiet. "What just happened?" he asked. "Did we almost die today?"

They all had the bruises to prove it, but Anárion currently lacked the mental capacity to go to that place just yet. They could have died. His brother would have been lost. Elenwë. When she finally returned outside, Anárion had worked himself into such a state that he could not help but ask, "What took you so long?"

He felt, more than saw, everyone's glares on him. Even Eranion, who was usually apt to trust him implicitly, thought it had been in poor taste to berate his sister. Even Isildur, who would not have wasted the opportunity to flirt with as pretty a girl as Lassilenwë's cousin, could not find it in him to be his usual suave self, but Anárion had not been blessed with such restraint.

"You changed?" He asked Elenwë, and she looked down, fidgeted with her hands.

"I asked her to let me wash her dress," Lassilenwë's cousin was quick--too quick-- to say. "It was the least we could do to thank you for bringing Lassilenwë back home. Thank you for watching out for her. I know she can be hard to befriend but she is family and, in these hard times, you have to hold on to what you can. I promise I will watch her better."

"You have enough to deal with on your own, Indilindë," Elenwë said, laying a hand on the other lady's forearm, which Indilindë clasped in turn. Anárion could clearly see that there was more to the gesture than the shared worry of one day and wondered, for what must have been the tenth time that day, how he could have drifted so far apart from these people that he had missed the development of all of it. 

They made their way to Emeldil and Eranion's in silence. He noticed that Emeldil began to drift closer to his sister and, at one point, he had his arm around her shoulders as they walked in silence, her leaning her head on him at times. The whole house was in an uproar by the time they finally appeared, making it easy for him and Isildur to lose themselves in the commotion and escape towards home. 

"Do we go to Grandmother's or to your place?" Isildur asked.

"Well, she was waiting for us."

"That was hours ago," Isildur said. "They must have figured we went out and, after having a little fun, went to sleep. We'll just wake them up and make them worry if we show at their home late like this."

Anárion looked at him for a moment before saying, "That conversation is not going to happen, Isildur, no matter how you maneuver me into having it. Alone at my house, or alone at Grandmother's--it's not going to happen."

"You have dragged me half-way around the city into the slums and are not going to tell me why?"

"We were keeping Elenwë out of trouble."

"More like pushing her into trouble, I dare say. She is not a girl any more, and the sooner you lot realize that, the easier it will be to deal with things as they are."

"And how are they?" asked Anárion, stopping to look at his brother in the face. "How are things, Isildur?"

"Secrets," Isildur said, in a whisper that made all his hair stand on end. "Everybody has secrets."

Not Isildur too! It felt as though somebody had moved the earth from his feet and he was slipping, slipping far.

"Those secrets are not mine to reveal, Isildur," he said, almost a plea for his brother's understanding, though the bigger part of himself knew that this was the chance to break free from his him, only... only he was too much of a coward to take it. "As much as I long to tell them to you... I-- I can't."

Isildur turned around and began to walk, fast, leaving him to struggle to keep up. Despite his custom-made shoe, his knee hurt so much that he was limping by the time they reached their grandparents' home. The lights were out. It was as Isildur had said, and after a telling look, Isildur kept on walking. He was actually going to make him limp as best he could all the way to his own house. Well, if that was the way of things, he could give eye for eye!

Except-- except a thought struck him.

"Isildur," he called, struggling to keep up, reaching for his brother's shoulder to make him stop for a moment. "Isildur, what was Elenwë doing in Andúnië?"

When Isildur gave his shoulder a squeeze in turn, he knew he would not like the answer. "Those secrets, brother," Isildur said, "are not mine to reveal."

***

They made the rest of the way in silence. It was not very far from Elenwë's house to his, and though he knew he should have chosen to put more distance between them, the spot had been close to the Shipwright's Guild building and it had seemed convenient at the time he settled on the location, or so he had told himself. He made the journey daily, sometimes two times a day, but tonight he was both physically and emotionally exhausted and it was all he could do to focus on putting one foot ahead of the other. 

They had been fortunate that Ithil had been shrouded in cloud all night, which had worked perfectly for their escape; but a steady breeze had began to blow westward from the sea, had moved the clouds, and had revealed a bright, full moon, and the entirety of the constellations of the summer sky. Had they waited a few hours, their flight would have been jeopardized and his friends would have been further endangered. The mere thought of it made his stomach twist into awful knots. Reaching his door had felt like what he imagined the Elves would feel upon finally reaching the coast of Tol Eresëa after long years of exile.

"I think being so close to both poverty and corruption has sapped you of your optimism," Isildur said as he went inside and began to work on clearing Anarion's one table of books, maps, parchment, and the odd cup that had been buried amid the lot. Meanwhile, Anárion had sat on his chair by the entrance, as he always did, to begin undoing the laces to his boots--it would be too much to ask that Isildur forget to question him on how he had such an intimate knowledge of the market, and that sort of mindless rhythmic exercise helped him rally for it. Fooling Isildur would be difficult, and painful, but imperative; he had made _that_ choice a long time ago and could not afford to have second thoughts about it.

"It was a tough day today, brother," was what Isildur chose to begin his prodding, "but you did well."

Anárion muttered the perfunctory thank-you and kept working his laces, but he knew better than to think that would be the end of it.

Isildur dropped the last load of books upon the bed. "Better than well! If you had not been there we would have been mugged, or lost and never found again..." he finished with a dramatic air that made Anárion smile like he had done millions of times before this one, for his brother's sake.

"You would have figured the layout eventually, I'm certain of that."

"Before being robbed, or after?"

Anárion tossed the left boot and set to work on the right. 

"I don't think the average man would have engaged all four of us."

"Which means that you must know they have worse than average people there."

"I thought that they might have tried to confuse us, make us lose the ladies. That would have undone our little group; those boys would never have forgiven me if I had lost them their sister."

"Do you reckon? Who would have been the most distraught had that happened--the boys, or you? How did you figure what to do? And that bit about the jewelry? Elenwë was smart enough to venture out with merely that necklace, but Lassilenwë was bedecked like a diamond mine!"

That made him feel inside his pocket. The jumble of chains and gemstones that the ladies had passed to him was still there. Sorting the lot out would be quite a task, but he began, grateful for something to do, something to use as an excuse. He felt Isildur's eyes on him all throughout, but kept to his task.

"You were right," he finally said, "a mine and a half!"

"Do you still have Wen's necklace?"

"It ought to be somewhere in here," he mumbled as he pulled and tugged at the ball of chains, though he had the sinking feeling that the necklace was gone. Isildur noticed his worry and knelt beside him, helping him sort out what pieces he had been able to untangle: a set of chandelier earrings with a leaf motive, three bracelets in the same pattern but different shades of gold, a necklace came next, and three rings tumbled out from that last tangle.

"It's not here," he cried, lifting eyes to Isildur.

His brother frowned. "Have you looked in all your pockets?"

His knee protested as he stood, but he did so the better to search. His pant pockets were empty, but there was this one pocket in his shirt and there it was: a dainty necklace of clustered golden stars, linked together by a clever chain. Isildur studied it as it dangled from Anárion's fingers. He reached for it, a small smile forming on his face as he worked on the necklace to produce a very slender golden chain that had been tangled on the thicker one: a mere strand of gold, with a sun pendant.

His heart did that odd thin again as he contemplated the little relic of the past he had not seen in over fifteen years. 

"Did you give her this?" Isildur asked. "It looks an awful lot like your insignia."

"It isn't," he said, snatching the chain back. Thankfully, Isildur left it at that and moved to take the chess set out. He began to arrange the pieces on the board, whistling a little tune as he worked, while he left Anárion to sort out the more complicated jumble of his emotions as he recalled exactly how Elenwë had come by the pendant. His brother did not give him a lot of time to dwell on the past. "What kind of deals have you been making with people there?" he asked, as he pinned him with that keen, probing look that set his hair on end

Anárion's hands stilled, necklace held firmly within his fist. "I told you," he said, as nonchalantly as he was able, "I found good prices on supplies I need for work."

"Is it worth risking your life for a few leaves of parchment? For paper, Anárion?"

"I use a lot of paper."

"Father would give you all the money you asked for--he would probably build you your own paper operation-- if he knew what you have been up to to save a few coins."

"It's all well, trust me,"  Anárion said, hastily putting the necklace back in his pocket and laying Lassilenwë's pieces on the small table by the door. He returned to his half-laced boot, hoping Isildur would not notice he could not look him in the face. When a few moments passed and Isildur was still silent, he looked up, only to meet with a glare.

"What?" he asked, dropping the shoe and rising from the chair. "If you have made up your mind not to trust me, then nothing I can say will satisfy you."

"It's not like you to be untruthful."

"I am not being untruthful!"

"Well, then..." Isildur said, waving a pawn at him, "tell me this: what would you have answered if Elenwë had not stood up for you before the boys?" 

"I would have answered as I answered you: I deal with market suppliers, and can hardly be blamed for it when prices are so much on the rise, now leave it alone, Isildur."

"Why did Elenwë jump to your defense so readily?" Isildur asked, more to himself than to him. "It surprised even me, I must admit. How long has it been since she barely crosses word with you? Five years, at least."

"Nine," Anárion said, grudgingly, as he began to arrange his side of the board.  "Why am I always black?"

"Because you are too slow to settle and choose white first."

"You always take me by surprise."

"And you well know that surprise is the first rule of every good attack-- not my fault if you lower your defenses. It's always easiest to find out what I want from you when we play-- chess puts you in a benevolent mood."

"I hope you have not been letting me win," he said.

"You know I don't have the patience for that. Planning a losing strategy to upend your winning strategy... The mere thought of it makes my head spin," he said with a minute shake of the head. "My pride is simply a campaign casualty."

"What was she doing in Andúnië, Isildur?"

His brother looked up from his king and gave him a slow smile.

"You like to talk about her, don't you?"

"Do you even know, or did you just let me think you did, to goad me?"

"Ha! I upset you. I wanted to see how long it would take you to ask the question." He settled his queen next, looked up from his board to him. "No, I don't _know_ if by that you mean my having heard it from Elenwë herself, but it's not difficult to read the clues."

"What clues?"

Isildur looked at him for a long time before giving his answer. When he spoke again, his tone was not playful but earnest, and that disturbed him deeply.

"Can we talk here?" he asked. "Do you think you could have unwanted ears about?"

It took him a heartbeat to catch on. He rose, checked the door, checked his windows. They were alone. He drew the chair next to his brother's. "What do you know?" he asked, leaning close.

"I am almost certain she has been helping 'traditionalists,' though the exact nature of the help is still a mystery. The story she gave when she was there was that she had come to Andúnië to purchase fabrics for new gowns. She stayed over three weeks."

"What do you think she was doing?"

"There's the rub. I asked Mother; she claimed she knew no more than I did, but Elenwë dined at the house at least twice every week. Always when us men were gone. I thought that out of respect for you, Mother would show some restraint..."

"They always liked Elenwë quite well," said Anárion. "Do you think Mother could be involved in it, whatever it is?"

"It's a thought. She has the influence and, after what happened to Arlen and her family, more than enough motivation. Still, it is hard to think of Mother doing such dangerous work. Or Father allowing it."

Anárion rubbed his forehead, the back of his head. "This is just what I needed," he muttered.

"What do you mean?"

But Anárion chose to ignore that. "What, do you figure, is the big secret?"

"There are a couple of possibilities," Isildur said, taking over the arrangement of Anárion's black pieces. "There is an orphanage in Andúnië. They take all children, but everyone knows that they hold a 'traditional' bias. No one will claim patronage. Yet, despite all odds, the orphanage still stands."

"Could she not just send the money to them, if that's what brought her there?"

"Who would you trust with that responsibility, from Elenwë's circle of acquaintances? Who would have that bit of juicy information and not sell her out? Remember that Elenwë is one of the most eligible girls on the island and that kind of secret would ruin her for good. Or bind her to someone she did not wish to be bound to."

For a while, Anárion could not make himself speak as the implications of that sank. "The thought of Elenwë being so deep in on it," he finally said, "as to have no one to trust..." He grunted. "It makes my blood boil." Isildur raised a brow at him, but he chose to ignore that too. "What is the other possibility?"

"I saw her once with Golasgan."

Anárion snorted. "Golasgan? Elenwë would never look at Golasgan in that way."

"What makes you think that? Golasgan is a perfectly good catch for any eligible lady."

"Golasgan has been around too much."

"He has reformed. I think he is quite fond of Wen."

"Or rather her dowry," Anárion said. "Do be serious, Isildur."

"I thought Golasgan was a friend of yours."

"And he is. Just, not cut out for her."

"Well, at least it is better than the other option."

"Which is...?"

At that Isildur finally showed some signs of discomfort, which somehow frightened him more than any thought of being persecuted did.

"What is it, Isildur?" he asked again, but his brother just cleared his throat and looked away, busying himself with an imaginary smudge on his table. "Isildur," he tried again, moving to kneel by his brother, to make Isildur look at him. "If Mother, or Elenwë, are in trouble, you have to let me know what it is so I can help them."

"And how would you purpose to do that? Through your friends from the market? You know that kittens get caught in tangles when they play with their mistresses' wool."

Anárion could not contain himself at that, and hit the table with his fist, upsetting the board and sending a few of the pieces rolling down on to the floor with a clatter. Isildur did not even flinch; instead, a big grin had spread all over his face. It made him so angry, how Isildur could remain so composed while his own heart was threatening to hammer its way out of his chest! Isildur merely sat, legs sprawled in front of him, regarding him with that fierce, dangerous glint that only signaled trouble.

"I am relieved to see you still have some feeling in you. I had began to think that your secrets here in Rómenna had turned you into a block of ice. Now you know what it feels like, don't you, having truths kept away from you by the one person you should have been able to trust?"

That hurt worse than a warg bite, worse than a knife wound, worse than his useless tendon, worse than the lifetime of dreams he had seen crumble to the dust the day he had taken that stabbing for a man he did not even know. He felt walls closing in on him and found it hard to breathe, but he made himself use all of his will to focus on Isildur's eyes, those dark irises that held the entirety of their life together in their depths.

"If I hide things from you, Isildur, I trust you would know me well enough to understand I would have a good reason for doing so."

"Sure. Just like I have a good reason from keeping my secrets well hidden."

"Secrets are nothing to play with."

"We can both agree on that."

"Then what are you waiting for? If there is anything you know, you need to tell me."

"I have to see you try prying this out."

"We have never competed for anything."

"Nobody could have a better brother," Isildur said, and his voice held that hitch to it that made Anárion's heart squeeze.

"This is not about who gets the upper hand."

"Again, somethin we can both agree on."

"If you know anything, Isildur, you better tell it to me now."

"I don't think so, brother. I think I am going to keep it to myself for the time being."

"What for? I can help them, but you have to let me know how."

"How can _you_ help them, Anárion? Are you ready to tell _me_ the truth?"

All of his time away from home passed before him--everything he had done, what he had accomplished, what he had not told his family. Under Isildur's hard stare, he felt something inside of him snap. Through painful experience he had learned that it was best to say nothing when he was not sure he could be in control of himself, but he could not let Isildur keep this away from him at his mother and Elenwë's peril. 

"Would you sacrifice your own mother's safety to wrest my secrets from me?" he asked, afraid to cross that line and unsure of what other choices he had left.

"Would _you_?" Isildur threw his question back at him, the twitch in his jaw the only indication that he was under heavy strain. "Would you hurt your mother? What about Elenwë?" he asked and, as if outside himself Anárion watched Isildur's hesitation before he decided to plunge the knife further in. "Would you hurt the only woman you have ever cared for, for your stubbornness?"

Something broke inside of him at that, and he had to remind himself that it was his brother he was facing to keep in what was really on his mind to do. He felt his fingernails digging into his palms as he stood, fists clenched, on the verge of becoming what he had always loathed to be. 

"What do you want, Isildur?"

"I want you to stop lying to me and to tell me what is going on with you."

"You are bribing me, then? Your secrets about Mother for whatever it is you think I am hiding from you?"

Isildur looked away at that, for a mere heartbeat, before that part of him that was only will-power and strength took over. "Well, isn't the bramble calling the briar prickly?" 

"I would never put you in a position to have to choose between two parts of your heart."

"No. You'd rather hide your heart altogether, but I cannot live like this anymore, Anárion. It is eating me up. Every time someone asks me about you, I have to lie to them because telling them the truth--that I have no idea where you are, or what you are doing there--is much too painful; going to sleep every night without knowing if tomorrow I will wake up to the news that you have been found dead on some beach. Or some alleyway, as things stand." His voice caught at that again. "I need the truth."

"Or else?"

If anything, Isildur's eyes hardened, before he said, "You know what else. You know I will never stop."

He did know. And Isildur did not have a very good chance of surviving in the world Anárion lived in now. He would not see any harm come to his brother.

"I will tell you this, Isildur," he said, and watched his brother swallow hard and widen his eyes under his stare, "Mother and Elenwë are in danger if they are messing in the King's affairs. It is real, present danger that will destroy them and our families if knowledge of their activities reaches the wrong people. Now, let me ask you again: what do you know?"

Isildur hesitated. He blinked a couple of times before he was in command again and then, with a clear, measured voice, said, "There is only one way I will ever tell you, and you know what it is, Anárion."

Torn between agony, anger, and fear, he muttered, "Go to the pits," then grabbed his boots, and left.


	3. Chapter 3

_"Come to the edge.  
We might fall.  
Come to the edge.  
It's too high!  
COME TO THE EDGE!"  
-Christopher Logue_

 

Elenwë knew it was gross ungratefulness, but coming back home that night had been one of the greatest trials of her life. They made her sit and recount her journey in full and it was hard to decide, on the spot, what could be told and what could not. They made her eat, drink tea, wait for a physician to come and determine she had not suffered any lasting trauma or damage to her hand, rehearse her journey for the physician all over again... and all the while what she had really wanted to do was to be alone to figure out how not to cry, and to take a bath.

She was utterly exhausted--her heart even more so than her body, though that seemed impossible with all the gashes, the blisters, and the muscles that throbbed all over her. There was a time in her life when the danger might have been a thrill, but she was old and cosseted now, and the whole day had been an exercise almost perfectly designed to test wether she had the mettle to attempt what she was about to do with her future. She could still walk away--forget, let go of everything, and go back to the life she knew.

Sighing, she leaned against the closed door of her bedroom, her eyes stinging because of the tears threatening to escape, though she could not even tell why she wanted to cry. She had been through worse before, knew enough to know that wounds to the body healed faster than wounds to the heart, and therein lay the problem. She felt like she had been pushed through a wringer; like one of the king's jugglers struggling against a ball too many, with each ball one of the fears of her adulthood tossed at her to keep in motion at the same time. It had simply proved too much to handle: her fear of helplessness, of royalists, of inadequacy, of lack of foresight, of the people she loved being harmed, of not being able to make a difference, of simply not being enough. And there was Anárion, too, dogging her steps all the way to watch her make a fool of herself. To watch her fail. 

Her eyes strayed to her wrist, where the bruise he had left stood out in stark contrast over her pale skin. She touched its surface, gingerly, and was surprised at the odd, random flutter she felt when recalling what it had been like to be held by Anárion. Wished she could forget. And now that she was finally alone, wished that there was at least one other person in the world in whom she could confide the entirety of her soul. She needed to scream. She needed to throw something. She needed to run--running had felt good, she had felt good that her body had not forgotten how to do it, that she had still been able to keep up with the boys. She needed to rid herself of that awful feeling of blood in her hands, so she decided to attempt the bath that her sister-in-law had had drawn for her. Before getting in the water, she inspected the dress that Indilindë had let her borrow, thoroughly, to make sure that she had not stained it. When she was satisfied, she placed it on top of her chest and finished unpinning her hair that had already become a tangled mess after a day's unexpected exercise.

It was then she missed the necklace. Since she was fifteen years old she had worn Anárion's sun chain around her neck--the first gift he himself had ever been able to purchase through his own genius. Never could she forget his pride in presenting it, nor her own pride in being the recipient of such a treasure, for one of his most cherished dreams had always been to make of himself somebody who could be known through his own merit and that necklace proved his achievement. She hoped it had not been lost at the market when she passed it on to him, and the thought of her precious pendant being trampled upon on the streets was threatening to undo her precarious composure.

So she sank under the water, surfaced again, and let herself soak. She soaked for so long that her skin began to itch, but no matter how hard she scrubbed, she still felt soiled. She had been bold enough to ask Indilindë for a change of clothes, not out of vanity, but because she could not stand herself. It was one thing to train, to practice, to pretend, and she had always been so good at it, had always had such steady, remarkable aim, _for a woman_ , that she always assumed whenever it came time to it she would have no problem putting her skills to practice. She had never counted on her presence of mind deserting her, but today had shown her that it was one thing to rehearse, but quite another to slash someone's wrist, and she felt profound gratitude to whatever power was watching out for her that she remembered her lessons and cut at the right spot. She did not believe she had killed anybody today--that horror was not something she desired to contemplate--but she was frightened, nonetheless, at what she had seen of herself. The frailty of human life was staggeringly overwhelming when it was placed upon her hands, and she was terrified of the instinct that had made her pull the knife and harm somebody else. She would never forget what it felt like to stab somebody, to feel the knife struggle and then slide, to feel someone else's blood on her. At that recollection, she could not hold it together and began to weep like a baby-- all that she had been holding inside, all of today, all of the hundreds of todays since she had sworn to herself that she would never cry again.

She had lost.

And that fact made her hurt all the more.

Some time later, and she was not sure how long after it was, she heard a knock at her door.

"It's us, Wen," she heard Eranion's voice from the other side.

"I am not dressed," she called back, hoping they would take her excuse and leave her alone.

"Then you better dress yourself," Emeldil said. "We'll wait."

How can one prepare for the conversation that will shatter one's world? She had been telling herself that the new world she was hoping to build would be a better world, an existence of which she could be proud, a place where she could do something for those she loved without expecting anything in return. But, now that it was time to take the first real step, she was scared almost to the point of paralysis. Still, she managed to dry and dress herself, but her hands were shaking so much, and her bandage so much in the way, that she was not able to braid her hair and twisted it, instead, into a knot at the nape of her neck.

"I almost fell asleep right by your door," Emeldil said as she came into view.

"You should have," she whispered, but he shook his head, stood, and swept past her into her bedroom as if they were still children. Eranion had always been more careful, less self-centered, and he did stop at her door--a silent bid for permission. Elenwë shrugged her shoulders and watched him walk in, stride toward the window seat like he had always done. Taking one last moment to steady her nerves, she prepared to follow her brothers inside when Eralmir appeared. That startled her. Since her eldest brother's marriage things had been different between them and, in truth, she had not expected he would ever come back to see her here. Yet, here he was. 

"Do you think it is appropriate that we be here, in her room?" Eralmir asked her brothers, not her. "We could always go to the library..."

"Just get yourself inside and sit down," said Emeldil, which Eralmir promptly did, taking his usual seat opposite Eranion. 

Elenwë leaned against her wall for a moment, looking at her brothers. If she needed any encouragement to go on with the course she had purposed, she supposed that she could not find any better than the three men before her. Númenor was falling apart all around them and despite their losses they still had each other, but for how long? Their turn would come--she was convinced of that--and, when it came, would she fight and die with dignity, or would she shame herself at the last by shutting her conscience away? Would she sacrifice the life she knew for a chance to make a better world for her brothers? For other people she did not yet know? Straightening her chin and shoulders, she took one step inside and closed the door behind her.

"Are you up to this, Wen?" asked Eranion.

Emeldil did not wait for her to reply. "This has to be done, Rani," he said, "and, the sooner, the better. Don't you feel like... like we are being sucked into a whirlpool? The world keeps revolving around us, sucking us each one by one, and we are just drifting in the current, waiting to go under. Today was Wen's turn, and we need to know exactly what happened if we are to keep her afloat."

"I have told you already," she said, touched by the sentiment, but unable--and unwilling--to further explore it. She sat on her bed, propping her back against the headboard, her feet tucked under her, opposite Emeldil. They had now divided into their usual two camps: Eralmir and Eranion, Emeldil and Elenwë. This time, however, she had the distinct feeling that this was purely out of habit and the last time the lines between their thinking would be so clear. Eralmir and Eranion were always the steady influence that Emeldil and herself needed to temper their wild, outlandish schemes. What would the future bring for them? She rubbed her eyes, sighed, forced herself to focus on the present. "Today is a day I would just as soon forget."

"I told you it was too soon," muttered Eranion.

"All we need to know, Elenwë, is why you were there."

"I told you all already, several times: I saw Lassilenwë leave the seamstress' through the back door, and I could not help but follow her because I knew she'd be courting trouble, and I was right."

"What kind of trouble, exactly?" asked Emeldil, "Because, it seems to me like the one courting trouble was you."

"I have told you before, I have told you what she wants," she said, wishing the conversation over but hesitant to give them what they wanted to hear to end it. Still, "She wants to know who... hurt her. Her sister."

"What for?" asked Eralmir. "Is she going to avenge her brother-in-law? It would be a laughable notion if I did not know that she may yet be planning such a scheme. She is too volatile, Elenwë, and you need to stay away from her. We have talked about this so many times, and you know-- even before the law, as we explained to you--you know you have no part and no blame in what happened with her sister's family. Today, though... you almost got all three of you killed."

"I did not!" Here she had to stop, take a breath, blink away the tears that were threatening to come again, and curse herself for her foolishness. She used to have more nerve than this! "I am sorry, but this sort of thing would not be an issue if you all left me alone. Then nobody would ever be in danger, nobody would get hurt by my doing, and we would all be happy."

"Only you could call it happiness when you were risking your life for somebody who cannot stand your guts," Emeldil said with a loud snort, as he uncrossed his legs, stretched, then crossed them again.

"You know it's not going to happen," said Eranion, "so don't even go there. We are not just going to leave you alone to your own devices. You need as much protection as ever, if not more. Give us at least some credit for figuring that out."

"It has been over ten years since I became a woman with rights before the law," she said. "I think I am well past protecting."

"Like it or not, you were protected today," said Eralmir, which made both Emeldil and Eranion look at each other in what they must have considered to be subtlety. So, they had not told their eldest brother that she had fought and had hurt people and had, generally, given like she had been given herself? It was an interesting development, but she had no time to think on it, for Eralmir was speaking again. "You were protected, not only by your brothers, but by Elendil's sons also. What would we have told Elendil if either of them had come to harm?"

The answer to that was ready on her mind, but she waited a moment for politeness' sake before saying, "Elendil's sons are full-grown men and it is disrespect to imagine them needing protection from their own choices, and besides they're hiding something themsel--" but here she bit her tongue. She had spoken out of turn. All three brothers turned to look at her in silence, for a mere moment, before unleashing the torrent that they must have kept inside since earlier that day.

"I knew they were hiding something!"

"That Anárion, so sneaky, got out of revealing exactly what he's been up to!'"

"I don't think it's both of them. You could tell Isildur was fuming all throughout--as angry as I was, I had to pity Anárion. I'd hate to have to take that man home with me in the state he was in, can only imagine he gave it to him hard, you know how he gets if there's any hint of trouble for his little brother."

"That was when they were little, but Anárion is quite capable of speaking for himself and being listened to, as you saw today; he always has."

"An older brother never outgrows the propensity," put in Eralmir with a rueful smile.

"From what I saw today, I'd have to say Isildur could use some protecting himself. How could Anárion have known exactly where to go in that maze of a market? The way he took charge... if we got out of that mess unscathed it was because of him."

She had to agree with that, though she would not say it aloud in front of her brothers. Anárion's drive, his strength, his determination were things she had always admired, but today she had seen an altogether new side of him that was as intriguing as it was frightening. 

"I knew Anárion liked to keep his own counsel, but venturing into the market?" Emeldil continued in an altogether too-animated tone that almost bordered on approbation. "Having friends there? I swear, when he gave us instructions--fourteen torches, ten houses, zig-zagging paths, what was all that about? Such precise minutiae! I could not believe what I was hearing, but I was so scared and so desperate to get Wen out of there that I did not stop to ask how he knew the slums to such detail! It is creepy, if you ask me," he finished, by then positively excited.

"You know Anárion has prodigious memory and a head for numbers," said Eranion. "I was not as surprised by the kind of instructions we received as I was by their existence in the first place. I knew Anárion was bold and adventurous in his own way, but I never thought he would get entangled with people from the market."

"It's like we don't know him anymore!"

 _That was it!_ she thought, as she recalled the strange glint in Anárion's brooding grey-blue gaze, the earnest way he had looked at her as if he'd both dreaded and--well, it was as if he _almost_ longed to stay beside her as much as the thought of it disgusted him! She knew she was being ridiculous; Anárion had not once sought her out since that day nigh on ten years ago, why ever would he initiate any sort of contact now? But he had, hadn't he? She had the bruise to prove it. For as long as she lived she could never forget the sheer relief she had felt when he walked into that parlor that morning and demanded that she be released, nor the absolute assurance flooding through her that he would see it through until she was out of harm's way. 

For years she had missed his presence, but she thought she had learned to live with the hole. The idea that she could still count on him was oddly... disquieting. Even more disquieting was her own response to his help. It had taken her this long to assert herself out of all the men in her life to be able to finally think of carving her own future. It's what she had always wanted, what she had envied from all the men she knew: the ability to master their own destiny. It was the only good thing that had come from her falling out with Anárion, because she had been forced to see herself raw, and to start thinking of who she was if she did not have his friendship to define her. It had been awful. Terrifying. Anárion's friendship and acceptance had been a source of contentment, of comfort, of pride for her. If a man like Anárion could look at her and see worth amidst all of her imperfections, if he could accept her for who she was without caring that she was _only_ a woman and her greatest value lay in what kind of man she could snatch for her father's ally, if he could look to her for friendship, for intellectual comradeship, for companionship... That had meant more to her than any praise she could have received from any other quarter, and the reason was because he offered his regard because of her, nothing more. He did not need the rise in station a connection with her family could provide. He did not need friendship with her brothers; he had his own brother whom he adored. He did not need any of her land, or her friends, and light knew she had nothing to teach him or give him in return but her own self. And that had been enough. It had been plenty. Even thinking about it now she felt that special warmth in a corner of her heart that would never forget what it felt like to be well and truly cherished.

She had always known her father and brothers loved her, and as grateful as she felt for their love, she had always felt terrible guilt for not being satisfied with just that, but she wanted more. They were family, they had to love her, but they never trusted her with anything that mattered, so busy were they trying to protect her. And since she never did anything that mattered, that truly mattered, she was never able to glean admiration that fulfilled her. Being thought pretty, or accomplished, was such hollow praise, and had nothing to do with her own merit. She did not make herself pretty, her looks came from her parents, and the kind of money that they had spent on lessons for her would have made the lowliest cricket accomplished. She wanted more, and Anárion had understood that essential fact about her because he himself wanted more also. If she had just been able to see things with such clear eyes then! 

After breaking free from that one tie, all the others had naturally followed: who she was to her father, to her brothers, to the men around her that had hoped to make alliance with her house, and even those who hadn't. She had to stand on her own and expose herself to the world, and that had given her a new bravery that she had only dreamed of before. It had allowed her to be with others the way she had always felt free to be with Anárion, and the release that brought was what got her through her other losses. If it had taken this long to reach a place where she could, at least, think of her past with a certain degree of objectivity, how could she give it up, no matter how wonderful it had felt to have someone with whom to share a burden?

She shook her head, determined to squash that trail of thought, when she realized that the conversation was fast getting ahead of her.

"I don't know if I want you around him, boys," said Eralmir, slowly, uncertain.

"Oh, come now, Mir!" Both boys cried, identical pouts on their faces that they had probably outgrown before she was even born.

"What Anárion really needs now is help," said Eranion.

"Well, I want none of you to be providing it!"

"Elendil's sons are our oldest friends," said Eranion. "Do you really think we would shirk from providing any help they needed?"

"Anárion is playing with fire, and those who play with fire inevitably get burned."

"Eralmir, how can you read 'The Star' and have failed to catch the vision of what is going on?" asked Emeldil. "The world we know is falling apart. If they had people at that market that were desperate to go after us--that would risk the consequences of going after a lady like Elenwë--it is only a matter of time before they find us in our usual places and they give us whatever they deem deserving."

Eralmir raised a hand to forestall him, which made Eranion snort and Emeldil chuckle.

"What does that mean?" Eralmir asked, "And don't involve 'The Star,' you know what the rules are."

"Phaugh! And it means that Elenwë here could probably lecture us about the kind of obscure news and unsavory tortures that you are trying to protect her delicate ears from," said Emeldil, very much in character. "Sorry, sister, but it's true. You're hiding something. And don't think your little lace enterprise is not suspect." He wagged his finger at her, but then a curious light entered his eyes and he asked, "Is your fight with Anárion a cover for your covert collaboration?"

The room was deadly silent for a heartbeat before Eranion and Eralmir exploded into laughter. She was so stunned that she could not think of an effective way to stop their mirth, so she did not try. Emeldil, however, did not laugh. He was very seriously looking at her with an expression she had never seen in his playful eyes. It was something like surprise, respect, caution, all at once but, more than anything, intrigue. He had never looked at _her_ like that, and she had to acknowledge that she rather liked it.

"The way he came to her rescue after so many years of estrangement..." Emeldil broke off, and all noises stopped again. "Well, they have not exactly been best friends for a good while."

The reminder of the painful past snapped her off the lethargy she had fallen under, and she cleared her throat before saying, "We never were best friends if we could cross that line away from each other with such ease. Now, if you think that Anárion would involve me in a secretive enterprise before he would involve his own brother, you do not know him at all."

"But you did not say you would not have accepted."

"He would never ask," she replied, firmly, trying to put the uncomfortable topic to rest, but full of her own questions. Still, it was better if she did what she could to disabuse her brothers of any thoughts of covert operations. "If he had not tried to do whatever he could to help, I would have been quite disappointed in him and so would you."

"She's right," said Eranion, a curious expression on his eyes now, but he had a little bit more tact than their brother and refrained from pursuing a path that he knew was hurtful to her.

Emeldil had no such compunction. "You saw how he held on to her and would not let go. He has not touched Elenwë in five years--or is it six? It was that Eruhantalë before he joined the king's navy... No, wait, it must have been more than that, he has been back from campaign these past five years or so. He has not walked with her, sailed with her, danced with her... Nothing. No running, or studying, or building things, or going to the lectures together... For over six years! Will you really tell me that you can snap out of that kind of disaffection at a moment's notice?"

"If he thought her life was in danger..." said Eranion, "and remember that his own brother was there also, and so were we. Anárion has his pride and he has his quirks, but he is honorable to a fault, in every way a man ought to be. Light, he would help even the King's executioner if he thought it behooved his honor to do it."

"Whatever the case may be, Anárion is not the reason we are here," said Eralmir.

"Well, in a way it is, since he saved our hides at the market." Emeldil.

"Watch it, Mel. Whatever Elenwë may have learned of the world, she still won't hear bad language from us," said Eranion.

She sighed. They were insufferable and endearing at the same time, and she was about to deeply hurt them. Once she could not hide what she did any more, she would have to leave and lose them forever.

"I am tired, boys," she said, her own attempt at hedging. "Can we do this another time?"

Eralmir looked long at her before saying, "I am almost scared that another time you would find another way to put it off." His lips curled, the same way their father's lips would curl when he was trying to master strong emotion, and it brought a pang to her heart. "I want you away from Lassilenwë. I want you away from any covert operations. I want you away from the market. I want you away from all of it."

She could lie, to appease him, but he deserved more than that. Forcing herself to meet his eyes, she tried to give him what she could. "The time is coming when those who stand on the sidelines are going to become enablers. You know I have been there before, and I don't think I can go through that again."

"Would you rather be hurt?" Eralmir asked, desperation beginning to show in his raised tone, but she had had so many nights to ponder her answer to that question that it did not unnerve her like it would have before.

"What would you, brother?" she asked. "Would you rather destroy your body, or your soul? Would you have me destroy mine?"

"What do you mean?"

She swallowed, looked down at her bandaged palm, at her bruise, before looking back up at her brother. "If you believe what we have been taught--what the Elves have said, what Elros our first father believed so much in that he changed his fate and the fate of us all for--if you believe that death is Eru's gift and that our soul keeps on living free of the constraints of this mortal life--if you believe in any of it, you cannot knowingly do any lasting damage to your soul and put your freedom, your future, your very being in such jeopardy. You just can't."

Eralmir got up after that, began to pace. Emeldil let out a low whistle. Eranion scratched the back of his head.

"Lassilenwë does not appreciate your meddling," said Eralmir, rounding in on her, trying another tack.

"No." 

"Then, why?" Eralmir asked, the expression on his face such a sweet mixture of befuddlement and annoyance that she had to smile. "Lassilenwë is a spoiled child, and I cannot believe that anybody would waste a breath trying to help her. I certainly wish you would not waste yours..."

"I can't just walk away from her, from what I know. From what I will become if I don't make a choice now." When three pairs of perplexed eyes focused on her, she grit her teeth, flapped her hands. "Don't you see it? How can I ever look at myself again if I walk away from her now? I promised myself--" here she stopped to swallow, her fists clenched so tightly that the gash on her palm split open and the wound began to bleed anew all over her bandage.

As one, all three of the boys sprang into action: Eranion rose to hold her by the shoulders and lead her to the water basin, with Emeldil pouring water onto her wound, and Eralmir waiting with soap, then a fresh towel. She bit her tears away so hard that she drew blood from her tongue. Oh, why was the choice so hard, if it was the right one? How she would miss them when the time came to go away! And the time would come. Today had shown her the helplessness of putting those she loved in danger, and it was a feeling that she did not care to experience ever again. Nor could she expect them to understand what force was driving her now, why even her love for them could not calm the need she felt.

After her wound had been re-dressed, Eranion fluffed the pillows behind her and had her lay down again, while Eralmir blew out her candle. 

"She's had enough for today, boys," he said. "So have you, I suspect. Let us all go to sleep and talk this over tomorrow."

One by one they said their goodbyes and filed away, but Emeldil lingered at the door. Wanting him gone so she could vent her sorrow, she said, "Ask your question, Mel, and then we can both call it a day."

Her second brother hesitated for a mere second before saying, "I just want to know--what was she really looking for? Because it looked like she was wanting to hurt that old woman..."

It had, but she could not know for certain. It did not escape her that, should Lassilenwë hurt somebody while under her vigilance, it would fall on her head too. Sighing, she said, "She must think that someone from that house was involved in the attack on her sister's husband. I know she has been trying to trace the source. Or the motive, though I don't know how she expects to be able to do that."

"Why is she looking for a motive? If he is one of the Faithful, isn't that reason enough for him to be attacked?"

She had puzzled over the same thing for days, but Lassilenwë despised her--there was no way Elenwë could coerce her into revealing any of her intent. Which was precisely why she had to follow her closely whenever she had the chance, Elenwë's best attempt at figuring out what she was planning to do until she could think up a better way to find out what she needed in order to save her friend.

Emeldil clucked his tongue, in lieu of a sigh, she supposed, though it sounded far too interested for her comfort. "And she was seeking these answers from an old woman?"

"Old people see more than anyone else."

"Why, Wen? This is her half-sister who, from all we know, has been a thorn in her backside all her life."

"Why, indeed? Sometimes we all do crazy things."

"What questions is she asking? If she is right, by half, she is dealing with murderers and you can't just walk up to a murderer and ask him if, by chance, he was the one who happened to kill your family member."

She nodded, though she doubted that he could see under the dim light of the candle he carried.

"What are the questions, Elenwë?"

She closed her eyes. "What would your questions be, brother, were you in her place?"

He hesitated again, was silent for a long time. When he finally spoke, his voice had lost some of its forcefulness. "The questions I would ask would not necessitate a trip anywhere." Then, "I am not sure that I believe she is merely asking questions and I want you away from her."

"That, I cannot promise to do."

A pause. Then, "I hope you'll think differently tomorrow morning." 

He turned to leave, had his hand on the knob, but turned toward her once more. His face was cast in dark shadows under the single lamp he carried, but she saw enough to know that he had never leveled her with that sort of look, keen and demanding. The lump in her throat would not let her speak, so she raised an eyebrow in question. 

Emeldil took his sweet time before finally asking, "What about Anárion?"

"What about him?" she asked back, more of a croak.

"Are you in cahoots with him?"

"You should know better than to even ask the question," she said, rising from the bed and moving to push the door closed but, when she did so, he was able to snatch hold of her forearm, which he turned around to take a better look at her bruised wrist, then up at her. 

"This--" he said, giving her arm a gentle shake, "This is a man in despair."

Had Anárion been desperate to help her? To keep her safe? Ha! Rather, to keep his own secret safe!

" _That_ is a careless man," she countered. "Anárion has never been desperate in his life."

"Don't wish that on him," he said. "It would be hard for Anárion to deal with that kind of emotion."

"Right. Good night, brother."

"So... Do you want him to be desperate?"

"Emeldil, I want him gone from our conversation!" she said, pushing on the door.

"So... You would help him if he asked?"

She grit her teeth. "Anárion would never ask! And, more than anything, he would never ask me."

"So... That means you want him to ask?"

She managed to push him out before she was obligated to find an answer to that.

 

***

Sleep had effectively fled her afterwards and she spent an awful night torn between pain in her hand, pain over what she had lost, pain at the memory of what she had done that day. Every moment of what they lived played itself in succession in her mind time and again, and no matter how many times she had to go through the same recollection, she was still at a loss as to what she could have done differently to help somebody, for once--could she have steered Lassilenwë out of danger? Could she have prevented her own wounded hand, or the flare up of pain in Anárion's injured knee? Had Anárion truly been worried for her safety, or was he protecting himself? And, from what? Why did she feel like it was important that she find out? And, what was she going to do about her brothers? How could she keep them out of trouble while staying true to herself? Why was she feeling such relief at her good fortune in averting the split she knew would happen between them--or a lie, or a confession--at the same time dreading anew the moment when any of those would come, the same way a skiff sailor wishes for waves and also fears them?

There was little purpose to remaining in bed, but she could not bring herself to face the day just yet. Erulaitalë was tomorrow. After tonight, the Númenor she knew would be divided into 'those who clung to the old traditions' and 'those who clung to the King.' Could one cling to both, keep her life, and not offend the Powers? Eralmir had gathered the whole household the moment the King's intent of forsaking the Prayers for Rómenna had been announced, and had warned everybody against outbursts of any kind.

"The King's beliefs," he had said, "have nothing to do with us, and as long as we don't cross him, we shall all be fine."

Elenwë herself was not so sure of that, but while she lived under Eralmir's roof she needed to comply with his wishes as best she could. She certainly did not know that the world would have much use for dead heroes, but was it right to lose one's honor to save a man's life? She knew of only one other person who would have found worth and even some humor in the debate, but he was now lost to her. Had she entertained any possible doubt (or any possible hope, as things go) his stilted behavior of that day had shown her that Anárion would never seek her friendship again. She had grieved that loss before, had believed herself done grieving. The incident at the market had shown her that she had merely fooled herself.

With these gloomy reflections she greeted the sun, and greeted the knock at her door. The sight of her nephew clambering onto her bed did put a smile on her face--it always did--and she let herself be cheered, hugged, and kissed. Lalriel, Eralmir's wife, followed behind, bringing with her a tray that she placed on the nightstand beside her bed.

"I hope you were able to sleep at least a little?" she asked, to which Elenwë only smiled. Lalriel gave her son a look and tilted her head in a question to Elenwë (Should she send Erassor away?) (No, let him be. This cheers _me_ more than it does him). Lalriel took her seat by the bed then and watched as Erassor prattled on about the day ahead and the celebrations. Elenwë loved how Erassor could always lift her mood. With him, she did not have to worry about all the politics and diplomacy and dissembling that were fast crowding her world. Erassor needed nothing more from her but for her to be herself, and that was a priceless gift to give somebody. Today, however, he was veering into a topic that made her stiffen into a sudden panic.

"... and when Anárion comes tonight, I will show him all my boats and we will play together all night long! And..."

It was Elenwë's turn to look a question at Lalriel, who gave her a minute nod before covering her eyes with her hands.

"I know, I know, and I am so sorry..." she said. "Eralmir thought it his duty to thank Isildur and Anárion for their help yesterday, but he also thought that it might not be a bad thing to have some company tonight. The celebrations always begin at dusk, and he wishes for Amandil's counsel on what can still be observed and what we need to let go. They had agreed months before to each keep their families close at home, to avoid any trouble, but I think Eralmir... After what happened yesterday, I think he... He was up early sending a message to Haldor and is standing by the window, watching for Glandur's return with the reply." 

"So early, Lalriel?" she asked. "Surely Eilinel and Haldor are still abed. Elendil and Elanya were not set to arrive until later today, from what Isildur said."

"That tells you how anxious he is," Lalriel said as she rubbed her son's leg, pausing to smile at her. "But, I know for a fact that they are not abed." Her smile widened as she produced an envelope and extended it to her.

"What is it?"

"Look! Elanya has sent you a message. I can only assume they have already arrived and are ready to go about their day if she had time to write and send this out. What does she say? Is she hoping to make a visit earlier than dinner?"

That was Lalriel's subtle way to ask what could Elanya possibly be writing to her. It puzzled them all how Anárion's mother could still reach out to her when Anárion and herself had such a difficult time even looking at each other, but Lalriel was very proper and she never asked any intrusive questions. Elenwë toyed with the envelope while she let Erassor regale her with a story of how the shipwrights all wanted the Prince Anárion to be their teacher, but she could only half-listen. 

"Go on!" Lalriel said. "Open it!"

Elenwë smiled, a small smile that could not fool anybody. Whatever Elanya could be telling her so soon after her arrival could not be good news.

"You don't think she is going to tell you anything about Anárion, do you? She has too much sensibility for that."

No, it was not about Anárion. Elenwë wiped too-damp hands against her bedcovers and tore the seal open.

_The 20th day of Cermië, 3265_

_Dearest Elenwë,_

_I hope this finds you well since we have last been in each other's company. I beg your forgiveness in disturbing you so soon after daybreak, but I have brought a few samples of that lace we discussed. Would you be so kind as to come and give me your opinion? At your earliest convenience, please. I am desirous to see you and cannot be assured that we will have the opportunity once the festival begins._

_Yours always,  
Elanya_

_Blessings, etc._

Elenwë stared at Elanya's usually graceful script that now looked hasty and jumbled, re-read the note a few times before lifting her eyes from the paper.

"Well?"

"She does not know."

"What doesn't she know?"

"She knows nothing about yesterday. She has not seen her sons yet."

"Does that bother you? Is that a bad thing?" Lalriel asked and, in an uncharacteristic outburst for her, added, "What did she want, then?"

What, indeed? Clearly it was a code for something else, though Elenwë could not really make it out. She pushed the bedcovers away, then hesitated before stepping off the bed, stopped to ruffle Erassor's hair.

"She wants me to come to see her."

Lalriel's eyes widened at that. "That's strange. She knows Anárion will probably come there too at some point during the morning and then he'd have to run into you, at his house... hmm... Do you want me to fetch her here, instead?"

"No!" She cried, belatedly realizing how her eagerness could be construed. She rubbed at her temples. "This must be about that project we have been engaged in--the workshop. I better come and see what she needs." She kissed Erassor's forehead and gave her sister's hand a quick squeeze before getting off the bed. What could possibly be the problem? She opened her armoire and ran her hand through the dresses there.

"Do you want me to send Vendethiel in to help you?" Lalriel asked. "It might be difficult to get dressed with a bandage on your hand?"

"Yes. No! I'll be all right if you will help me with my ties."

Lalriel gave her a puzzled look but soon sprung into motion. "Which dress do you want?"

"Oh, it does not matter."

"How can you say that?" her sister asked. "Two of the most eligible bachelors in the whole of Númenor will be seeing you in this getup. Surely--"

"Not you too!" Elenwë cried as she walked behind the screen and proceeded to get out of her nightgown. "Please, not you too. I have enough with my brothers teasing me about this all the time."

"You're right, and I am sorry. I just can't help myself, sometimes. You used to be so happy when Anárion--"

"Please. Here, could you help me lace up?"

Lalriel sighed and went behind the screen to help her with her chemise and other undergarments, with admonishments to her son to stay put on the other side.

"Is it too trying for you, Elenwë?" Lalriel asked as she worked on her ribbons. "We do this all the time, don't we? Visiting them, having them here for dinner so often... I am ashamed to think about it now; we should have been more mindful of your feelings. Why have you never said anything?"

At first, she did not know how to answer, so she kept working on adjusting the drawstrings at her chemise's neckline. Nobody had ever asked her how she felt, or what she thought, about her family's continued association with the one person with whom she could not get along.

"Would you say... the gray dress?" she asked, instead.

"It's too hot for gray."

"The light gray then." Their families got together often, and often Anárion was not there, and at those times it was as if nothing had ever happened. "The light gray with the gauzy underskirt?"

"Which is also gray?" Lalriel tsked. "Yesterday you were wearing your yellow dress and you looked so beautiful!"

"Only because Father liked that dress so much." She left the rest unsaid. Yesterday had been the anniversary of her father's birthday, and now she had probably ruined the dress with the blood stains.

"Love--you can do this. Your father would certainly be glad you are displaying your beauty to gladden those who look upon you. How about the light blue? Pink? Fern Green?"

"People are not gladdened by beauty," she said, "even if there were any to display. I look just like every other girl in Númenor--I have such ordinary features! But, what about the tan dress?"

"Oh, yes! That one accentuates your figure in a very fetching way."

"No. Fern green it is."

Lalriel laughed at that, which made the heat rise to Elenwë's cheeks. 

"Hide it how you will: you _are_ beautiful, and men can see through your facade of 'There's more to me than my looks.'"

"Well, there is! Or so I hope."

"Of course there is, but why must you have one and not the other?"

"Because men cannot get past one to discover the other. Now, help me put this on."

They worked in silence while Lalriel helped her into her gown. This one had a darker green underskirt that made her feel like she had gotten lost somewhere in the Emerië. It was lovely and, she had to admit to herself, sometimes she felt like she should not be wearing something so fine when so many people around her were in such deep trouble. Still, she let Lalriel help her and fuss to her heart's content.

"Perfect!" her sister declared when they were done, though her eyes lingered a very brief moment on her bruised and bandaged hands.

"Well, there's no hiding that now," Elenwë said, "and I am not going to change out of this, it was too much trouble to put it on in the first place. Maybe a shawl?"

"If it was too hot for the gray dress, it is definitely too hot for a shawl. You would look ridiculous." Lalriel then gave her a saucy smile. "Never you mind that. Let Anárion see what he did and find a way to make it up to you."

That stung her, though she could not say why. Her hands stilled over the embroidery in her bodice, and she took a deep breath. "Please, do not joke about it."

"What happened between you, Elenwë?" Lalriel slowly asked while she worked the ribbons at her back. "It is just so puzzling. One day you can read each other's very thoughts and the next--well, there's.... There's..."

"Nothing," Elenwë said, and left it at that.

"I know I have no right to ask you--"

"It's not that, Lalriel, it's just that-- well... having to talk and think about that part of my life brings it all back fresh, and I had hoped that at this point I would have reached some equanimity."

Lalriel was silent for a while, enough to make Elenwë feel grateful that it was all over. Not so. "I am not sure that you will ever reach the detachment you wish for," she said, though it was more of an uttered thought than anything else. 

Elenwë imagined that a knife to the heart would feel much the same, then berated herself on the next breath for being so childish. The truth was that she could not contemplate what the rest of her life would be like if she never reached some sort of truce with her past, and the prospect was so painful that she willed herself to set it aside.

"Why is that?" she forced herself to ask, because she did not wish Lalriel to fret about having hurt her feelings. There was silence for a while, and Elenwë was beginning to think that Lalriel had not heard her. When her sister spoke again, it was still in that same dazed, soft murmur.

"And we don't make it better by throwing you into each other's company all the time..."  
Lalriel then placed a hand on top of hers and squeezed it. In a louder, firmer voice, she said, "I am sorry for having caused you pain, sister, but I want you to know that I am here for you. I will talk to Lissilomë and change sitting arrangements, at least, so that you do not have to be beside him all evening long."

"No!" she cried, more forcefully than she had wished. After swallowing, she added, "This is the way we have done things since I was a little girl and, if we change it now, everybody will know it was my doing and I won't be able to bear the shame... Please, allow me to figure out my way through this. There was a time when I would have wished someone to come and save me from my suffering, but I have since understood that this is something I have to work out for myself."

"You are braver than I, Elenwë, and I greatly admire you for it."

Elenwë tried a small smile. "Will you be all right without my help while I go to see Elanya? I should be here helping you prepare for tonight instead."

"I should be convincing your brother to cancel the whole thing," Lalriel said with a lady-like snort. "Do you want me to?"

"Of course not," Elenwë replied, oddly grateful, as she gave her sister a kiss on the cheek. "If you would tell them that I went out for a spell, I will be back to help with whatever you need me to do."

"I won't make you do that."

"If you don't, they'll send me out front to wait for Amandil's party, and surely that will be much worse than preparing for their arrival. "

"I see. And this way you show off your domestic skills in the bargain."

"Oh, but you are so irreverent under that demure exterior," Elenwë said, and ducked at the cushion that Lalriel threw her way. Scooping Erassor up for a quick hug and kiss, she left for Elanya's house and for whatever awaited her there.


End file.
